The Killer in the Classroom
by bloodwrites
Summary: Sequel to The War in the Woods. Brennan takes a sabbatical from the Jeffersonian to lure a serial killer out of hiding. Set sometime in season 4, B/B all the way.
1. Chapter 1

_So, kids, this is the latest experiment from yours truly. The challenge I gave myself for this one is to write a Bones whodunit – complete with red herrings, anti-heroes ,all that jazz. But don't worry, there will be plenty of B/B goodness in this one, I swear (even a bit of smuff, if you're good). It follows the events of The War in the Woods, picking up where that story left off. And so, we begin… _

**November 15, 2004 **

Dr. Rachel Martin stared at the open belly in front of her with a grimace, shifting from one foot to the other and cracking her long neck.

"Come on, Mona – you're killin' me here," she muttered, loud enough for the rest of the surgical team to hear her. She glanced at the clock, then back down at Mona Whitcomb's mangled bowel. It was nine-thirty – two hours into Mrs. Whitcomb's emergency surgery, following a head-on collision just off 405 earlier that evening.

"I get the feeling Mona here doesn't even care that it's my day off," Rachel continued, trying to keep her tone light.

Doug – or Dr. Murray, her right-hand man, and by far one of the best residents she'd ever had the pleasure of torturing – gave her a sympathetic smile.

"Yeah – the nerve of some people," he said dryly.

"We're gonna need to run that bowel again, Dr. Murray," she told him. "I don't want to miss another bleeder." She paused, waiting until he had a length of intestine in hand before continuing. "Do you know what I was doing thirteen years ago right around this time, Dr. Murray?"

She noted approvingly that he didn't look up from his work when he answered.

"Uh – giving birth, Dr. Martin?"

She nodded. Rachel wore green surgical scrubs that were now covered in Mona Whitcomb's blood and viscera, but even the outfit and surgical mask couldn't quite hide her good looks. She was trim, athletic, and competitive to a fault. At thirty-five, she'd become the youngest chief of surgery in Portland Presbyterian Hospital's history – a position she was just getting used to after nearly a year. It was one of many distinguished titles she'd earned over the years.

Rachel had always lived a charmed life. The only child of working class, devoted parents in upstate New York, she was taught early on that hard work was its own reward. She put herself through medical school, graduating _suma cum laude _from Johns Hopkins at the ripe old age of twenty-six. By that time, Rachel had already earned two of her biggest titles: wife and mother. She'd married Jim Martin, a fellow student three years her senior, just after finishing her undergraduate degree.

Abby was born when Rachel was twenty-four. For a couple of years there, life was madness – a haze of diapers and scrubs and exams she still didn't remember passing but somehow must have, because sure enough two years later she was a doctor. She and Jim would steal moments in the on-call room, making love once in the parking lot as she was getting off shift and he was going on… They would sleep in one morning a week with Abby between them, her baby fists curled in Rachel's hair, her small, soft body nestled at Jim's chest. Maybe it wasn't ideal, but somehow they muddled through and Rachel still sometimes got nostalgic for all that chaos, all that passion.

Around the time Abby turned three, the charm wore off. They were already living in Oregon then – both Jim and Rachel had done surgical rotations at Portland Presbyterian, and both had been offered jobs there when they were finished. Abby was sleeping through the night by then (in her own bed, even), both Jim and Rachel's jobs were going well, and Rachel's parents were even talking about relocating from New York to the Pacific Northwest in the next year – something Rachel desperately, desperately wanted.

But then January hit, and one night on the way home from playing bridge with another couple Rachel had known since childhood, her father's Le Sabre hit a slick of black ice and spun out of control.

And Rachel went from surgeon, wife, and mother, to surgeon, wife, mother, and orphan.

That same winter, Jim began having migraines – blinding ones that made him sick to his stomach and left him rung out and exhausted for days afterward. Three months after her parents' death, Rachel stood beside her husband in a neurologist's office, staring at a brainscan that she couldn't believe belonged to the man she loved.

Within a year, Rachel added widow to her long list of dubious titles of distinguishment.

That, however, was all water under the bridge, Muddy, painful water that Rachel would just as soon not spend any time in. Now, she had a perforated bowel on the table in front of her, a promising resident to guide, and a twelve-year-old daughter about to enter her teen years. And she really, really needed this surgery to be over.

"Do you know how long I was in labor, Ryan?" Rachel asked, raising her voice to include the anesthesiologist seated at Mona Whitcomb's head.

"Twenty-six hours, Dr. Martin?" Ryan asked. He was in his forties – a little soft around the edges, a little dull (there was a joke around the hospital that there was no one better suited to put someone to sleep than Ryan Jacobs), but reliable and good at his job. Which was all that mattered, really, as far as Rachel was concerned.

Rachel winced when she saw a bubble of deep red, oxygenated blood begin to seep from the exposed belly. "Heads up, Dr. Murray – you've got a fresh bleeder. Watch that last section of bowel, we may need to resect before the night's up." She suppressed the urge to push the resident out of the way and simply take over, returning her attention to Ryan instead.

"Twenty-six hours exactly, Ryan – I haven't told this story before, have I?"

Ryan rolled his eyes. In fact, everyone had heard this story countless times before – it was one of Rachel's favorites.

"Twenty-six hours of labor, people. For a breach birth – I bet I never told you that part, have I, Justin?"

Justin was the scrub nurse – he had a thing for Rachel. He was a good ten years her junior, but he was tall and well-built and frankly a lot of fun to have around. That was as far as it went these days – Rachel had way too many responsibilities to even consider scratching that itch. She'd gone on exactly one date in the past six months ago, and that one was last week. She wasn't due for another one until 2005.

Justin gave her that wolf-grin that made her wish she were younger and a little less jaded. "I think you might've mentioned it once or twice, Dr. Martin."

She nodded thoughtfully. "You ever try to pull an eight-pound, six ounce infant feet-first out of your vagina, Dr. Murray?"

Doug paused in his work to level a glance at her, his eyebrows raised. God, Rachel loved residents.

"Uh – can't say that I have, Dr. Martin."

She gave him a little smile and motioned him aside so she could inspect his work. "Well then, my friend, you clearly haven't lived yet."

An hour and a half later, Rachel was still standing over Mona Whitcomb's freshly resected bowel.

"All right, kids – third time's the charm. Let's run this bad boy one more time and get the hell home."

Doug looked at her and she could tell he was irritated – Saturday night, and no one actually wanted to be there. She checked the clock again: eleven fifteen.

Shit.

Doug didn't argue, though – just stood silently by while Rachel re-checked his work. Her back ached, her feet hurt, and in forty-eight minutes she was supposed to be home to wake her daughter for her annual re-telling of Abby's Birth Story, a tradition Rachel had maintained for twelve years now. She'd be damned if Mona Whitcomb's bowel was going to keep her from making it thirteen.

Twenty minutes later, Rachel was satisfied that she'd done everything she could: if Mona passed now, it sure as hell wouldn't be from internal bleeding. Rachel sprinted down the bleached hallways of the teaching hospital, ignoring the amused glances of her colleagues as she stripped off her top before she'd even reached the locker room. Doug was behind her, jotting down notes while he walked, but he raised his head to call after her as she disappeared behind the double doors to change and head home.

"Tell Abby I said Happy Birthday."

In the parking lot, Rachel ignored the ever-present rain of Oregon in November, and headed straight for her car. The lot was almost completely empty, and the wet pavement shone like glass in front of her. It was eleven forty-two, but her house was only ten minutes away and traffic this late should be light. She tossed her duffel and briefcase into the backseat, and climbed behind the wheel. Normally, Rachel enjoyed this time of night. She liked how quiet it was, how much like home the hospital had come to feel after almost fifteen years working there. She liked the old brick building, the steep granite steps, the not-unwelcome feeling that ghosts – friendly ghosts, of course – walked with her, watched over her.

Tonight, though, she was more focused on getting home than on ghosts, friendly or otherwise. Which was why she didn't notice until she was almost at the hospital exit that someone was trying to flag her down.

Shit, shit, shit.

She flipped on the windshield wipers, squinting through the glass to make out who it was. When she recognized the figure, she sighed and glanced down at the digital clock on the console. Eleven forty-eight. It would be easy to just pretend she hadn't seen him – apologize on Monday, saying the weather was bad and she'd been in a rush. He would shrug off the apology, insisting that it hadn't been important anyway, and that would be that. Instead, Rachel slowed down.

Over the next sixteen hours, Rachel would relive that instant a thousand times. In her mind, she would ignore the ingrained inclination to be polite and responsible, likeable even… She would keep the window rolled up. She would have her cell phone beside her instead of in her briefcase in back. She would keep her foot on the gas, and never even go near that brake.

Sixteen hours to regret one fatal mistake.

Instead, Rachel slowed down and the man got closer. She rolled down her window; he leaned in. He smelled like aftershave – he'd showered after the surgery, and during that interminable sixteen hours Rachel would wonder if he had showered with this moment in mind.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked, trying not to sound too impatient.

She didn't see his other hand until it was too late – his fingers wrapped around the barrel of a gun, his arm flashing into her periphery too quickly for her to react before the butt of the gun connected with her temple, hard. The world swam, blurred. Vanished.

And Dr. Rachel Martin added one last title to her name.

Victim.

TBC

_**So, there it is – the beginning. I know, I know: where's all the Bonesy goodness? Not to worry, they'll show up soon enough. In fact, I'm posting chapter one tonight as well, because I'm on a roll. Let me know if this caught your attention, though – if you're intrigued by the premise and interested in what happens next. And, of course, Thanks for Reading! - Jen**_


	2. Chapter 2

_So, if you haven't actually read The War in the Woods… Well, you should totally read it, what are you thinkin'? BUT, if you haven't read it – this picks up immediately afterward. Brennan has just gotten back from an Outward Bound course with the rest of the team in Maine, during which time there were some pretty interesting developments. Other than that, though, you should be able to follow along just fine. _

* * *

Technically, Temperance Brennan knew that she should go straight to the Jeffersonian as soon as her plane landed in D.C. She knew that she should disregard her exhaustion from a rigorous week of teambuilding in Maine with her colleagues; rise above the relatively inconsequential aches and pains that went along with eight days of kayaking, hiking, rock climbing, swimming, and sleeping on the cold, hard ground; and, most of all, forget her trepidation about the relationship that seemed to be burgeoning between she and her partner, FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth. Brennan had always been adept at compartmentalizing in order to perform her work as a forensic anthropologist with the utmost precision and objectivity. She liked this about herself – the fact that she could relegate both her physical and emotional selves to a remote corner of her mind, focusing instead on whatever case required her attention.

This afternoon, however, returning to the stifling heat, crowded streets, and endless demands of her life in D.C., Brennan was finding compartmentalizing considerably more difficult. Though she knew it was illogical, she realized suddenly that she'd been expecting something to change upon her return – a shift in the weather, lighter traffic or less noise, brighter colors or less hostile pedestrians. That the city had not changed when it seemed as though the rest of her world was suddenly very, very different… It just didn't seem appropriate, somehow.

Brennan returned to her apartment for a change of clothes, allowing herself the luxury of a hot bath before what she was sure would turn into an all night session trying to catch up with everything she'd missed at the Jeffersonian. While she waited for the bath to fill, she accessed her work voicemail and began sorting through the eighty-two messages requiring her immediate attention. After she'd gotten through nearly half, she set her phone aside, checked the temperature of the now-filled bathtub, and shed the clothes she'd been wearing since Maine, dropping everything into the hamper.

Before she got into the tub, Brennan found herself studying her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on her bathroom door. Her hair had faint blonde highlights that weren't present before, bleached from a week in the sun. She had more muscle definition now than when she'd left, her external obliques considerably leaner and her trapezius and deltoid muscles rippling beneath her tanned flesh when she moved her arms.

She took a step closer to the mirror, looking her reflection in the eye. It hadn't really changed anything, she reasoned. So she and Booth had kissed. More than once. More than twice, even. Not on a dare, and not by mistake. It seemed, even, that they would kiss again – or, at least that seemed to be his intention in Maine. It was harder to read his intentions here, where things were louder and faster and much, much more complicated.

She rolled her eyes at her reflection.

"Stop thinking about him," she told her mirrored self.

Her reflection blushed, just faintly, and Brennan pulled herself back to reality. She climbed into the bath and forced her mind to return to the bodies awaiting her return at the Jeffersonian. There was work to be done, and not even the memory of kissing Seeley Booth was enough to keep Brennan from that work.

Of the eighty-two messages awaiting her attention, Brennan was able to forward more than half to interns. Another dozen were meant for different departments entirely, and nine were hang-ups. Ten of the calls were from a man named Alex Washington, who said he was from the University of Oregon and had a matter of utmost importance to speak with her about. If she didn't regularly receive so many calls from mysterious strangers regarding matters of utmost importance, Brennan might have been intrigued. As it was, however, she typed his name and number into her PDA and promptly moved onto the next urgent message requiring her immediate attention.

Brennan was slightly more interested when she checked her mail and found a letter and two postcards from Mr. Washington. She also had a card from her father and a letter from Russ, with two elaborately decorated, colorful cards addressed to Auntie Temperance. She smiled at the childish writing, then after a moment's hesitation went into her kitchen and posted each of the cards on her refrigerator, the way her parents had done for she and Russ when they were children.

It was nearly six o'clock by this time. Brennan dismissed the idea of putting off her return to the office until the next day as impractical, got dressed, and managed to get to the Jeffersonian by seven. The security guards waved her through at the door, and before long Brennan had succeeded once more at pushing everything but the vocation she loved far, far from her mind.

In truth, Brennan received a great deal of comfort from the sterile surfaces and hard edges of the Jeffersonian. The lab was empty, which wasn't surprising – everyone had been exhausted after the Outward Bound course, so she hadn't expected anyone but herself to show up to work before tomorrow. Quite happy to be on her own, Brennan took her time on the elaborate platform where a good portion of her hands-on duties were performed, inspecting some of the work done by interns in her absence, cataloguing supplies, and getting an idea of her more urgent cases.

In her office, Brennan found eight written messages waiting for her on her keyboard. One was from her father, two from her agent, and the remaining five were from Alex Washington. She frowned, caught between curiosity and annoyance. Before long, however, curiosity won out – she sat at her desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the number waiting there.

He answered on the second ring, his voice more youthful than she'd expected, for some reason.

"Washington here."

There was just an instant in which Brennan thought this an odd way for a college professor to answer the telephone, before she dismissed the thought.

"Yes, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian. I just returned after a week away, and saw that you were trying to reach me."

There was a pause. She could hear him riffling through papers before he finally answered. "Dr. Brennan – yes, wow. Thank you for returning my call. I'm a great admirer of your work – been following you for years now. Wow."

Brennan frowned, put off immediately by the man's unprofessional tone. "Thank you, but as I said, I've just returned after a week's absence, and I really have a great deal to catch up on. What can I help you with, Mr. Washington?"

He seemed to pull himself together at her words. "Yes, of course – I understand. I was actually wondering if we could meet."

Brennan's frown grew deeper. "Um – I'm sorry, I thought you were in Oregon?"

"I am – I am, yes. But I could be on a flight tonight, and meet you tomorrow. Honestly, Dr. Brennan, I'm not usually this pushy, but this really is important."

"Perhaps if you could just give me some idea what this is in reference to, we could discuss it over the telephone and then set up a meeting in the next week or so, once my schedule is a bit more malleable."

Another pause followed, longer this time. More riffling of papers on the other end, and she heard the man take a deep breath before he spoke again.

"Have you heard of the Northwest Ladykiller?" he asked.

Brennan didn't even have to think about it – she actually knew the case quite well. "Of course – three victims discovered in 2001 and '02 in Oregon and Washington. Mid-thirties, high-profile, professional women, brutally raped and tortured for an extended period before being strangled to death and dumped along major highways. The killer was never caught."

"Well, those three victims just jumped to eight – the killer's dumping ground was found last week, five more women fitting the same M.O. were buried there. We've been trying to keep it quiet, but the story's gonna break in the next day or so and then we've got a panic on our hands out here."

"I'm sorry," Brennan said in confusion. "You're with the University of Oregon? What is your connection to the case, exactly?"

Another pause. "Dr. Brennan, I'm sorry, but I'd really rather discuss this with you in person. Please. Six o'clock tomorrow night, there's a café on K Street called the Mighty Bean. I understand that you're reluctant, but I promise this is something that will be of great interest to you. Meet me there, hear me out. That's all I'm asking."

She hesitated, already thinking of what Booth would say to all this. The man on the other end of the line spoke again before she could respond, as though he'd read her mind.

"There's just one last thing, Dr. Brennan. I must ask that you not involve your partner in this – it's very important. Just hear my case tomorrow, and then you can make your decision from there. But until then, please don't share any details of the case or our conversation with Agent Booth."

She frowned. "Mr. Washington, I'm not certain – "

"It's Agent Washington, actually, Dr. Brennan. With the FBI, Portland office. Now, please? Tomorrow night, six o'clock. It's a public place, you can even tell Agent Booth where you'll be if you're worried that you won't be safe. Just don't give him the details until we've had an opportunity to meet."

Brennan hesitated an instant longer before she finally nodded. "All right – six o'clock tomorrow night, the Mighty Bean. I'll meet you there."

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan. I can't tell you how much this means."

He hung up. Brennan was left sitting in silence, trying to fathom exactly what she had just agreed to.

A moment later, she got up – she wasn't positive, but she believed she had a volume with an extended section on the Northwest LadyKiller somewhere in her collection. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and began selecting books from her bookshelf, still holding the notes she'd scribbled while she was speaking with Agent Washington. After a moment's perusal, she finally located the volume she was looking for on the topmost shelf – with coffee and notes in one hand, perched precariously on a stepstool, she reached for the volume. Which was when the phone rang.

Normally, she would have merely let the phone go to voicemail, but then she thought it might be Agent Washington again, or maybe Booth, and so she attempted to grab the book, hang onto her coffee and notes, and still turn on a dime to get to the phone on time.

Which was when the book - and several other books, and everything in Brennan's hands – came crashing down at once. Brennan landed with an indelicate thud amidst books and papers and coffee, her ego and her ass equally bruised. She was on her hands and knees trying to mop up the coffee when she heard the door open behind her. She looked over her shoulder to find Booth standing just inside her office, his eyebrows up and a concerned look on his face.

"Bones – you okay? I heard a crash."

Brennan noted irritably that not only had she missed the call, thrown her books in every direction, and spilled coffee all over her carpet, but the sudden appearance of Booth at her door had increased her heart rate exponentially and actually prompted a fairly strong physical (chemically induced, she reminded herself sternly) reaction.

"Booth, what are you doing here? Don't you have paperwork to catch up on, or criminals to apprehend?" she asked grumpily over her shoulder.

"Geez, somebody's in a crappy mood," he said, grinning now that he knew she was all right.

She noticed that he'd brought an order from Wong Fu's, which he set carefully on her coffee table before coming over to help her clean up the mess she'd made. She also noticed that he was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that accentuated the definition in his biceps and upper body. He looked tanned and rested from their week away, whereas she felt frazzled and suddenly very, very uncertain.

"I'm not in a crappy mood," she informed him, though she had to admit that she certainly soundedlike she was. "I just have a great deal of work to catch up on, and I was trying to get to the telephone when I lost my balance and…" she pulled up short, taking a moment to pull herself together before she looked at him questioningly.

"Why are you here?" she asked again. "I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow."

She realized instantly that she'd said the wrong thing – Booth looked hurt for a moment before the hurt was replaced with a kind of resignation that made her feel instantly guilty.

"Forget it, Bones – I just figured you'd be working late, maybe needed a break. Then on my way in I heard a crash and I thought you'd, you know, fallen or something. Geez."

She brushed her hair out of her eyes and stood, dabbing ineffectually at the coffee on her blouse until she finally gave up and straightened, meeting his eye.

"I _am _hungry," she admitted.

The grin returned, though slightly dampened now. "Yeah?"

She nodded. He took a step toward her, so that they were standing eye to eye and just a few inches apart. She could smell his aftershave – a subtle, masculine scent that he'd been wearing for as long as she'd known him. She realized suddenly that, regardless of what happened between them, she would always associate that scent with her partner – with the security she felt when he was near, the excitement of an impending case or, now, an impending kiss.

There was a moment in which neither of them spoke and neither of them touched, the room thick with tension. Finally, Booth smiled, his eyes seeming to sparkle slightly.

"Here, Bones - you've got a little coffee on your cheek," he told her, grinning as though he thought she was hopeless. He ran his thumb along her cheekbone – Brennan felt a tiny shimmer of electricity run from her knees to her navel at the contact, but with some effort managed to remain standing.

Once the spot on her face was apparently gone, Booth didn't remove his hand. Instead, he cupped her cheek, running a finger along her mandible while he rested his other hand at her waist, pulling her closer. After a moment's hesitation, she rested her hands on his chest, not missing the flicker of desire that crossed Booth's face at her touch. Another instant passed before he leaned down and their lips met, the kiss beginning as tentatively as that first one a few days before, but it built quickly. She was getting used to his lips, she realized – how surprisingly soft they were, the way he opened to her, the skillful way he used both teeth and tongue to build passion.

She fisted her hands in his t-shirt, pulling him closer. She could feel his heart beating erratically against her chest, and gasped slightly when his attention shifted from her lips to the point just behind her right earlobe, her knees physically weak when he whispered,

"You like that, huh, Bones?" before he flicked her earlobe with his tongue, sucking on it for just a moment before he released it and returned to her lips.

Showing commendable restraint, Brennan managed after another few moments to pull away, nodding toward the couch.

"We should – uh, maybe we should eat something."

She was pleased to note that he looked no less flushed than she, taking a step back and rubbing his palms on his jeans briefly before he managed to nod.

"Uh – yeah. Right. Food could be good."

They sat together on the sofa, the tension vanishing as soon as they began eating, both of them recounting their afternoons apart. Occasionally, their hands would touch when Booth passed her a container of food, or her knee would bump against his thigh when she leaned over him for something. She liked the way her body felt more alive at those moments, the way all of her nerve endings seemed focused on the exact spot where contact had been made. Brennan was well aware that her reactions were all chemically induced, dopamine and serotonin crashing through her veins in order to snare her into mating and thus propagate the species, but it didn't make the high any less intoxicating.

When Booth was finished, he stood and wandered her office listlessly, pausing at the books and notes she'd picked up and left on her bookshelf. Brennan still had a mouthful of spicy szechuan when he began leafing through her messages.

"Wow – who's this Alex Washington guy? He left like a dozen messages."

Brennan wiped her mouth and stood, going over quickly to retrieve her notes. "Booth, those are private – you can't just go through my messages, I work with classified information."

He held them out of her reach, grinning at her. "Oh, and this Alex Washington is classified?"

She rolled her eyes, setting her jaw. "Booth, cut it out – just give them to me."

He hesitated a moment, then looked at her with an unmistakable smirk. "All right – what'll you give me for 'em?"

She took a step closer. "They're _my _messages – I shouldn't have to give you anything for them."

He shrugged, turning his back on her as he began to read one of the notes. "All right, have it your way. Hmm, now this is interesting."

"Booth!" she raised her voice impatiently. "Fine, what do you want?" She took another step toward him as he turned to face her once more, and he didn't back away this time. The room seemed warmer suddenly, her heart pounding, and she managed a seductive smile. "Just tell me what you want?" she said, her voice lowering to a silken whisper.

He took a step closer, loosening his grip on the messages, which is when she pounced. She managed to retrieve all of the scraps of paper, make it to her desk, throw the scraps inside the top drawer, and lock it before Booth caught up to her. When he did, he grabbed her around the waist and turned her around.

"Now, that's just playing dirty," he said, and the smile on his face was part fun but also a large part desire. He trapped her against the desk, their bodies pressed together, hearts pounding. She reached up to wrap her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down closer because suddenly not touching him, not having his lips on hers, seemed ludicrous. She pressed her hips against him wantonly, feeling the pressure build and wanting suddenly, desperately, for him to relieve that pressure.

Booth wrapped his arms around her, one hand tangled in her hair while the other was at the small of her back, pressing her still closer. They paused for a moment, Booth resting his forehead against hers while they got their breath.

"Christ," he breathed softly, shaking his head. "You're… God, Bones, you're gonna kill me."

She smiled uncertainly, studying him for a moment to see if he was teasing her. He didn't appear to be, however – in fact, he seemed almost heartbreakingly sincere. With his hands at her waist, he lifted her lightly onto the desk and they remained that way for a few seconds of silence – she with legs parted slightly, him standing between, his hands resting lightly on her thighs and her hands on his chest. The moment had gone from charged to tender to something else, something she couldn't identify yet, and she waited for Booth to give her a sign. Finally, he sighed and looked at her seriously.

"So… We're really doin' this, huh? Not just in Maine, not just a one-time thing."

She nodded, recognizing the gravity of the decision. "It seems so. Although I hadn't really intended to consummate the relationship in my office. At least, not tonight."

He grinned at that. "Yeah – probably not a good idea. I'll get out of your hair, let you get back to work. But I was wondering…"

She looked at him curiously – he seemed uncharacteristically uncertain, which made her feel strangely powerful.

"Well, the week's probably gonna be nuts for both of us – I've got a new case, so I don't know how much I'm gonna be around here, and I'm sure you've got a thousand bodies to ID before the weekend. And I've got Parker all next week, starting Saturday, so… I thought maybe Friday night we could do something. I mean, you know, if you don't have plans."

"You mean, like on a date?"

He rolled his eyes, his cheeks flooding with color before he composed himself and the usual confidence returned.

"Yeah, Bones – a date. You and me. Dinner, dancing, who knows. You in?"

She hesitated just a moment, caught between an unexpected twinge of anxiety and the even less acceptable urge to grin like a lunatic, before she finally nodded. "All right – yes. That could be… yes. I'm in." She paused uncertainly. "But we're still keeping things just between us, right? I mean – just for now?"

He nodded immediately. "God, yeah – no way I want the squint squad knowing about this yet. So, you know – we just play it cool, same as always. No one'll know a thing."

She wasn't so certain of that, but she nodded gamely nevertheless. The success of their pact was short-lived, however, because just as he was bending down to kiss her once more, Brennan's door opened and Angela came breezing in, already mid-sentence.

"Bren, I'm sure you've got six million grisly bones to – " Angela stopped mid-sentence and stared.

Booth sprang away from Brennan instantly, and between the look of horror on his face and the wide-eyed shock on Angela's, Brennan had an inexplicable urge to laugh out loud.

She did not.

"Oh my god," Angela said. She reached for the door with a wide smile and turned on her heel, already on her way out. "Y'know what? It can totally wait until tomorrow. Forget I was here."

Brennan hopped down from the desk. "Angela! Wait!" She turned to Booth to see if an explanation was necessary, but he stepped out of her way and nodded toward the door.

"Go, Bones – you know she's already got Hodgins on speed dial, God knows who's next."

Angela was at her computer by the time Brennan reached her. The woman grinned and pushed away from the keyboard, quirking an eyebrow at her friend knowingly.

"Let me guess – it's not what I think."

Brennan shook her head immediately. "No – I mean, I assume it's exactly what you think. If you think that you walked in on Booth and me kissing."

Angela's grin widened. "Oh my god. Seriously, sweetie, I'm having a total pre-teen moment."

"I don't know what that means," Brennan said.

"It means I cannot believe what a vicarious thrill I just got from seeing you guys kiss. So, what does this mean? I mean… Not that it _has _to mean anything, of course. All that repressed sexual tension was bound to come out sooner or later, I'm just glad…" She pulled herself up short, taking a breath.

"I'm babbling, aren't I?" she asked dryly.

Brennan nodded. "Kind of." She paused, trying to think of a way to explain this. "Ange, it just kind of… happened. And it's new, and we don't really – I mean, we're just taking things slowly. But we'd really rather that no one knew about it, at least for a while."

To her surprise, Angela agreed. "That's smart – I wish Jack and I had been better at keeping things under wraps, at least at the beginning there."

Booth came in then, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Uh – Bones, I'm just gonna get going, I still haven't unpacked or anything. I'll talk to you later?"

Angela winked at him. "Hey there, stud."

He turned bright red. "See? Now, this is why I didn't want them to know."

Brennan rolled her eyes. "Angela, stop torturing Booth." She turned her back on her friend, giving Booth a small smile. "I'll call you later."

Angela giggled, which made Booth sigh in exasperation. "I'm goin' home," he said grumpily.

The two women watched him go, Brennan actually laughing out loud when Booth shook his shapely ass in their direction just before he reached the door. When he was gone, Angela looked at her with a wicked smile.

"Okay, seriously? You have to tell me _everything._"

Brennan ended up staying at the office that night far later than she'd expected, getting far less done than she'd hoped, between Booth and Angela's impromptu visits. It was nearly midnight by the time she and Angela were through talking, finishing off the last of the Chinese food that Booth had brought and gossiping for hours. By that time, Brennan was far too tired to be remotely productive; she went home and collapsed in her bed, too exhausted to think anymore about Booth, or Angela, or even the mysterious appointment she'd made with Alex Washington for the following evening.

* * *

The next day was a blur. An ancient crypt extracted from a burial site in Paraguay had been shipped in that required Brennan's practiced eye, there was a mountain of red tape regarding an exchange of remains between the Jeffersonian and a museum in South Africa, the FBI wanted her help identifying the victims of a suspicious fire in New York, and then there were all the other no less pressing matters that hadn't been attended to over the past eight days. By noon, Brennan was beginning to regret her decision to take the past week off; by five, she was regretting that she'd ever returned.

Nevertheless, at ten minutes to six the forensic anthropologist announced that she was meeting someone at the Mighty Bean. She told Cam – who looked harassed and tired and no less pleased to be back than Brennan – that she would be back by eight o'clock, and requested that someone call her if she was not. She'd looked up Alex Washington's photo in the FBI database to ensure that she would be meeting the real Agent Washington and not merely an imposter with a photoshopped ID, and – having taken that final precaution – felt reasonably assured that she was not walking into anything inordinately dangerous.

It was actually cooler than usual that evening, considering that it was July in D.C. Agent Washington was already seated at a table outside the café when she arrived. He was tall – perhaps six foot two, probably a bit taller than Booth. Lean and athletic, of African-American descent, with symmetrical features and an easy smile. He stood and shook her hand, then gestured to the empty seat opposite him.

"The waitress should be by soon – I told her I was expecting someone. Please, sit."

She did. As soon as the waitress had taken her order, Agent Washington pulled a file from his canvas shoulder bag and pushed it across the table. Brennan looked at him curiously before opening the file.

She leafed through several enlarged photos of female victims in various stages of decomposition. The first three were photographed shortly after their deaths. She noted the broken hyoid bone on each victim; the torn fingernails and defensive wounds on each of the women's forearms; the bruising and shallow cuts around the genitals. The last five victims were photographed in advanced decomposition: skeletons, the hyoids of each also broken, the pelvic bones of two of the victims severely impacted by the sexual assault…

Bones fought to maintain her composure. These women spoke to her; they were like her, in many ways. Professional, strong, driven women – not victims, any of them. They'd all fought hard to survive, and they'd all been brutalized in unspeakable ways for hours – possibly days, in some cases – before they'd finally been killed and dumped. The last photograph, however, made her pause. She looked at Agent Washington questioningly.

"I don't understand – why is this last photo here? She doesn't fit the profile – and she died of a drug overdose, not strangulation." The photo of a teenager, no more than sixteen or seventeen, stared up at her. Her complexion was pale and blotched from advanced rigor, but Brennan looked beyond this to ascertain that the girl had been healthy, likely considered attractive among her peers.

"That's Abby Martin. She OD'd three weeks ago – runaway." Washington reached across and took the file from her, leafing through until he found a photo of one of the more degraded victims. "That was her mom – Rachel Martin. She was a surgeon at Portland Presbyterian. Went missing one night, never found. Her husband and parents died a few years before – no family, so Abby went to the state when she was thirteen. Ran away when she was fifteen, got caught up in drugs… And died, two weeks before we found her mom's body."

Brennan closed the file, trying to find her way back to solid ground. "Why are you telling me this, Agent Washington?" she asked quietly.

He smiled. Not a real smile, actually – it was what Booth would call a haunted smile, though Brennan found that term somewhat imprecise.

"Because I'd like you to come to Oregon and help us catch this bastard," he said, not taking his eyes from hers.

A long silence followed, during which Brennan's iced coffee was delivered and Brennan was left to consider what he'd just said. Finally, once the waitress was gone, she took a sip of her coffee and looked at the stranger sitting opposite her.

"How would I do that?" she asked.

It was apparently what Agent Washington was waiting for. He pulled out another file and passed it to her, taking the photographs back and returning them to his bag.

"You'd be safe – perfectly safe, I'd be there twenty-four seven, and you'd be very visible. But this guy… we think he's got a thing for you." He stood and leaned across the table, opening the file and leafing through until he found the page he was looking for. "He wrote this at two of the scenes."

Brennan read the words aloud, and instantly felt nauseas. "Violence and art, Your blood my heart. Together forever, Bred in the bone."

"The last line's yours, yes?"

She nodded, but said nothing.

"You fit the profile – thirties, attractive, successful, powerful. We think that if you came to U of O and taught for a semester, he couldn't resist. He'd _have_ to be there – he'd take one of your classes, attend your workshops, something. We have a few suspects, so all we need is something like this to narrow it down, lure him out of hiding."

At his words, she suddenly came to. "A semester? I can't leave the Jeffersonian for a semester – I can't leave… D.C., for a semester. I just left for a week and frankly I'm regretting that decision, there's no possible way that I could see my way clear for an extended leave right now."

"But you've gone on sabbatical before, right? I mean – I read your file, you've traveled all over the world. A semester in Egypt, Christmas break in Guatemala, summer in Paraguay… You've done it before."

"But that's different," she said immediately, though she knew that it really wasn't, not that much. "And I don't travel that much any longer – not for extended stays. I'm assuming you'd need me soon?"

He nodded. "There's a writing conference in Portland starting on Monday – we'd actually fly you out and you'd be a featured guest for that, and then there'd be a couple of summer workshops before the semester begins in September."

"So I'd need to leave this weekend?"

Another nod. She wasn't thinking about it – not really, it was insane. Everything was going well here: work, and family, and… Booth. And yet, every time she started to say no, she thought of the girl. Abby Martin. Abby Martin, whose father died and whose mother vanished without a trace, leaving her with no home and no future and no answers. Brennan took a breath.

"I – " she shook her head. "I don't know – I don't think I could do this. I'm sorry. There must be someone else."

He took the file from her and put it in his bag quickly, nodding without meeting her eye. "Of course, I understand. Thank you for your time."

Brennan stopped him before he'd gotten very far. "Wait – just… Could I think about it? I'd like to discuss it with my partner – "

Agent Washington shook his head quickly. "No – I'm sorry." He paused, seeming to realize the ferocity of his response. "I mean, of course you can think about it. But you can't discuss it – particularly not if you come out there. We have a number of agents working within the University system right now, and so if you came out, you would be working with them. Your relationship with Agent Booth is quite well publicized at this point – anyone who follows your work knows that the character Kathy Reichs is based on you, and her partner is based on Agent Booth. We can't run the risk that Agent Booth's presence would spook the killer and compromise the investigation."

Brennan frowned. "Well, then – that's the deciding factor for me. I can't go out there and not tell him what I'm doing."

This time, she was the one who stood up and started to go. And this time, it was Agent Washington who stopped her.

"What if you just gave it a month? Instead of the semester, you just came out for one month and we could just see from there if anything happened."

She considered this. "Just a month. And Agent Booth…" she \paused, hoping desperately that she didn't blush when she said it. "If I didn't tell him why I was there, would it be possible for him to visit the area? I mean – obviously, for work related purposes."

Agent Washington didn't seem fooled by her words, but he also didn't disagree. "As long as you didn't tell him, that'd be fine. Oregon's beautiful this time of year, I'm sure he'd enjoy it."

Brennan nodded. Taking a breath, she reached out her hand and shook Agent Washington's firmly.

"All right – I'll speak with my supervisor at the Jeffersonian and make the necessary arrangements. For one month. E-mail me the details, and I'll make travel reservations immediately."

The man smiled broadly, and for a moment Brennan thought he actually had tears in his eyes. He was nodding rapidly, already gathering his things.

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan. You have no idea… Really. Thank you."

She attempted a smile, but suddenly the enormity of the decision she'd just made seemed too great. Instead, she said a final goodbye to Agent Washington and left the café, already trying to imagine just what kind of story she could possibly concoct to inform Booth and the rest of her colleagues at the Jeffersonian of her imminent departure.

TBC

_**

* * *

**_

And we're off! Let me know if you're engaged or it seems convoluted, if anyone seems out of character, all the usual things that keep me in line. Oh, and of course let me know the stuff you liked... I'm only human, I really like that part. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

_Onward and upward! Thanks so much for everyone's stellar feedback - you guys really do rock my world, and I promise to try for an e-mail back to as many people as possible in the next day or so. There seems to be some concern about Booth and Brennan and lies and angst, so hopefully this chapter will set your sweet minds at ease!_

* * *

"Please tell me you're kidding," Angela said over the phone that night.

Brennan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Now that she was away from the photos and Agent Washington and confronted instead with the reality of her impending leave of absence, she was having a difficult time believing she'd agreed to any of it. She had an e-mail waiting from Washington as soon as she got to her computer, which gave her the uneasy feeling that the message had already been composed before they'd ever met. In it, he explained that she would primarily be conducting writing workshops and speaking at seminars over the next month. Almost none of the teaching she would be doing would be in forensic anthropology, it seemed, which struck her as both ludicrous and appalling.

"I'm not kidding," Brennan said firmly, though she certainly wished that she was.

"Is this because you're freaking out about you and Booth?" her friend asked.

Brennan shook her head. She was in her apartment, surrounded by mountains of paperwork that she would never be able to finish before her flight was scheduled to leave Saturday morning.

"No, Ange – I'm not freaking out about me and Booth. I told you." There was another voice speaking in the background – a distinctly male voice – and Brennan frowned. "Wait – is Hodgins there?"

Angela didn't even bother to deny it. "Don't sweat it, Sweetie – he already knew. Apparently he walked in on something in Maine and didn't even bother to tell me," at this, the other woman raised her voice as though to ensure that Hodgins heard her. There was another exchange that Brennan couldn't make out, before Angela returned her focus to Brennan.

"So, what's your story on this again?" Angela said, the doubt quite apparent in her tone. "You're doing a spur of the second, whirlwind teaching engagement at some college in Oregon to promote your next book?"

"Exactly," she said.

"Except your next book doesn't come out 'til next spring."

"My agent says it's good to generate word of mouth early," Brennan informed her.

This was, in fact, true. It seemed that the only one who was actually happy to hear of her plans (aside from Agent Washington, of course) was her agent, who was ecstatic. Brennan was forever being lectured by both her agent and her publicist about increasing her visibility in order to sell more books. Teaching at a writing conference was, apparently, a better way to increase her visibility than actually practicing the forensic anthropology about which she wrote.

"Bren, what the hell is going on?" Angela finally demanded.

Brennan rolled her eyes. "I've already told you what's going on. But that's not the reason I was calling. I actually…" she sighed, uncertain of exactly how to phrase what she was about to say. "I needed to ask your opinion on something."

"You mean you needed my advice, Sweetie. There's a difference. Now, let me guess: you're afraid that, just like me, Booth will think you're leaving because you're freaking out about you two. Instead of for this whole bogus teaching thingy," Angela said.

"Well, yes," Brennan said, though she wasn't sure she would have put it in those terms. "Though clearly I'm an independent woman and I've been making decisions for myself for a long time now, so it's not as though I need Booth's permission to leave town."

"Yeah, I know, Bren - you're a feminist, I got it. But it's okay to give the guy in your life some thought, all right? It's okay to want this to work out." She paused, apparently considering the issue before she answered. Once she had, she seemed quite confident with her response.

"Get him a ticket."

"I'm sorry?" Brennan asked, completely lost now.

"A ticket. Get him one. Round-trip, to wherever you're gonna be. It's proof that you really do want him around, and an actual date for when. Get him a ticket."

"Don't you think that's somewhat presumptuous?"

"No," Angela answered shortly. "Look, Bren – I've seen the way he looks at you. He wants to be with you. You want to be with him. You're just freaking out right now, even if you don't know you are. So… Take my advice. Buy him a ticket to Portland, for two weeks from whenever you're leaving. Give it to him. Tell him you'll miss him. Don't do that thing you do – "

"What thing?" Brennan asked irritably.

"That thing where you get all weird and don't talk about what you need to talk about because you don't think _he_ needs to talk about it."

"That doesn't even make sense," she said.

She could picture Angela rolling her eyes at her. "It makes perfect sense, Sweetie. Just listen to me, okay? You know I love you. This is what I do. Please."

Brennan nodded. When they got off the phone, she spent another half-hour debating her friend's advice before she reluctantly went to the computer and booked a round-trip ticket to Portland, for two weeks from Saturday. Worst case scenario, Booth wouldn't use it and she would have wasted the money. But, at least he'd know she tried.

* * *

The next day, Brennan spent an hour behind closed doors with Cam, trying to explain to her supervisor why she needed a month-long leave of absence from the Jeffersonian with no advance notice. They sat in Cam's office, and Brennan noted with a definite twinge of guilt that the woman's desk was even more deeply buried in paperwork than her own.

"You really need to go _now_? Just like that. Don't these kinds of things typically require a little more planning?" Cam wanted to know.

Brennan thought about this. She hated lying – she'd always hated lying. Even when they were children, Russ had always given her a hard time because she was so honest. Her brother was always making up elaborate stories to cover for something they'd done wrong, but Brennan invariably wound up breaking down and telling their parents before the day was up. This time, however, she realized that if she told _anyone_ what she was doing, it had to be Booth. And apparently – at least according to Agent Washington - he was the one person who absolutely couldn't know.

"They do, but a spot just opened up and my agent advised me to take it."

Cam looked at her skeptically. "Right. Because god knows you always take your agent's advice."

Brennan sighed. "I know it's sudden, and not an opportune time by any means. But I assure you, I wouldn't request the time if it wasn't important."

Ultimately, Cam agreed, as Brennan had known she would. The relationship between Brennan and the Jeffersonian was unique in its symbiotic nature – her reputation as a leading forensic anthropologist there gave her the credibility she needed to sell more books; the more books she sold, the more money and accolades the Jeffersonian received from wealthy benefactors who enjoyed the idea of consorting with a bestselling author. Besides which, Brennan would be monitoring her interns remotely during her absence, and realistically they had more than enough able bodies to go around. At the end of the meeting, Cam waved her out of the office with a tenuous smile, and Brennan was left to try and tie up whatever she could before leaving.

Brennan knew Booth had Parker that night, so she wouldn't see him until the next day. Thursday morning, she called and asked him to meet her at the Jeffersonian at eight. She assumed that by then her colleagues would have gone home for the night, and she would be able to speak with her partner alone.

"What's the matter, Bones? Can't wait 'til tomorrow night to see me?" he teased her, after she'd made the request.

The envelope containing the ticket she'd purchased for him was on her desk – she turned it over in her hands listlessly, already dreading their conversation. She was sure that even if she was able to successfully lie to him about her reasons for going to Oregon, he would think it was because of their relationship. It seemed unlikely that a simple plane ticket could resolve the issue, but her larger concern at this point was, without question, the lie itself.

She sighed, setting the ticket down resolutely. "Will you meet me?" she asked.

His voice was considerably more serious when he responded. "Yeah, of course, Bones. I'll see you at eight."

That afternoon, Brennan was actually grateful for all the work she needed to get done, because it meant that she was too preoccupied to obsess over her impending conversation with Booth. She'd already had another two conversations with Agent Washington after their initial meeting, each revolving around the reasons why she absolutely shouldn't tell her partner about her impending role in the investigation in Portland. And while she now felt that she understood the man's reasoning, she definitely didn't agree. Which made it that much more difficult to promise not to say anything.

By the time Booth got there that evening, – ten minutes early, she noted, which meant he was as anxious as she was – Brennan had a bad case of nerves and an endless supply of reservations. Booth knocked lightly on her door and entered without waiting for her response, going straight to her sofa. He sat down, stretched his back, and put his feet on her coffee table.

"So, Bones – you'll never guess the crazy story Sweets told me over at the Bureau today."

Though his body language was casual, she knew him well enough to recognize his tension. He was watching her closely when he spoke, and she realized as soon as the sentence was out that he knew.

"He told you," she said. God, sometimes she hated Sweets.

He scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully, quirked an eyebrow at her. "So it's true, then. You're leaving?"

She grabbed the ticket from her desk, and came to sit beside him. They hadn't touched since he entered – hadn't touched since Angela had walked in on them the other night, in point of fact, and she suddenly wanted very much to touch him again.

She didn't, however.

She handed him the ticket without explanation – more like shoved it at him, actually, and he stared at it uncomprehendingly.

"I'll only be gone for a month." She hesitated, then added, "Probably. And it's for a good reason."

He turned the envelope over and looked at it, but he didn't open it. It was a plain white business envelope – she'd purchased an e-ticket, so it didn't come in an airline envelope that she could present with more significance. She'd written his name on the front, and underlined it twice. Looking at it now, she realized that it looked more ominous than promising.

"It's a plane ticket," she told him. "To Oregon, two weeks from Saturday." She hesitated, not sure if he understood what she meant. "For you, I mean. Angela suggested I give it to you. So that you'd know…" She stopped again.

It was all coming out wrong, and Booth was watching her strangely, and she suddenly just wanted to forget she'd ever heard the names Rachel and Abby Martin, and simply stay in D.C. and keep cataloguing bones and go out on secret dates with Booth. She shifted in her seat, then forged ahead.

"Angela said you'd think I was leaving because of what's happening between you and me. But if I gave you this, you'd know that I'm not."

A shadow of a smile touched his lips, but he still looked concerned. "You're not?"

She shook her head. "No. I mean – I still don't know what will happen, but… I don't think I'm freaking out."

He seemed to consider this, nodding slightly. "Okay. That's good."

He took a breath, set the ticket on the coffee table, and turned his body so that he could look at her more fully. She wasn't entirely sure what had been resolved, but she realized that Angela had been right – the ticket, or Brennan's words, or some combination thereof, had set Booth's mind at ease.

At least in one respect. In another respect, however, she could tell he was still unconvinced.

"So, this good reason you have for going… Sweets said you're teaching at a writing conference in Oregon? _That's_ the reason you have to pack everything up and leave town…" he stopped, and she realized he was asking a question.

"Saturday," she supplied. He made a face, and sighed loudly.

"Right. Saturday. Okay, Bones – walk me through this. You're not freaked out about us, and you don't actually have another book coming out 'til next summer, and you _hate _this kind of crap. But you still need to pack up everything and move to Oregon for at least a month – maybe longer. And you need to leave the day after tomorrow?"

He still didn't sound angry – he sounded more resigned than anything else, as though she simply exhausted him. He was still wearing his suit, which meant he'd just gotten off work – had probably had a long day and a long week, and here Brennan was making things more difficult for him. Again.

And that was when she knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't look him in the eye and repeat the story she'd been repeating for the past two days, no matter how much Alex Washington might want her to. He could rescind the assignment if he felt he had to, but she wouldn't lie to Booth. She ignored the image of Abby Martin's face, took a breath, and shifted so that she could look her partner in the eye.

"You're not going to like this," she told him.

He looked at her, clearly catching the change in her tone. "Try me," he said, without hesitation.

"Have you ever heard of the Northwest Lady Killer?" she asked, because it was the only way she could think to start.

The question clearly caught his attention. He nodded, more guarded now. "Yeah, of course. Why?"

She took another breath. "Because I'm going to Oregon to help the FBI catch him."

The conversation didn't go well after that.

Twenty minutes later, Booth had his cell phone out and had just dialed Alex Washington.

"I wasn't supposed to say anything – " Brennan said, her temper mounting the more Booth ignored her pleas. "It's going to be fairly obvious if you call and yell at him."

"I'm not gonna yell at him. And honest to God, Bones, I really don't give a rat's ass if he knows you told me. I'm your partner, for Christ's sake. Who the hell does this guy think he is? What's he thinking?"

Brennan grabbed the phone from his hand, snapping it shut before Washington could answer.

"He was probably thinking that you'd react exactly like this. He was _probably _thinking that it would be fairly difficult for me to go to Oregon posing as a single, vulnerable potential victim if I had an overprotective, not exactly low-key FBI agent following my every move."

"Give me back my phone, Bones," he told her, and there was a dangerous look to his eyes that she'd seen before – it had rarely been directed at her, however.

They were standing toe to toe now, Brennan making herself as tall as possible so that she could look him squarely in the eye.

"I'll be safe," she told him. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I'll have agents around me constantly, they'll watch out for me."

He shook his head. "Not the way I do, they won't." He hesitated, a flicker of vulnerability touching his brown eyes. "I'm asking you, Bones. All right? As your partner – I've got a bad feeling about this one. Don't do this."

She hesitated, thinking for just an instant that it would be easy enough to simply call Washington and tell him she'd had a change of heart. He would understand – even if he didn't, that was hardly her concern. A moment later, however, she thought once more of Abby Martin – who'd believed she was abandoned and unloved, whose mother had been brutalized and murdered and tossed aside.

The office was quiet – the building was quiet. The world, suddenly, seemed quiet. Booth was close enough that, if she wanted to, she could reach out and kiss him – she wondered suddenly if he would respond. If he would kiss her back, the way he had the other night. If he would ever kiss her again, now that she'd thrown this in the middle of their path.

She shook her head, still not flinching from his gaze. "I'm sorry, Booth."

He set his jaw, grabbed the phone roughly from her hand, and stalked to the door.

"You know what? Fine. Fuck it. You want to go to Oregon and get yourself killed? Go right ahead. I won't stop you."

He opened the door roughly and she was sure he would have slammed it, if it was possible. She stared after him in shocked silence, caught between fury at his performance and a sudden, bottomless dread at the thought that he'd just walked out of her life for good.

* * *

That night, just before midnight, when Brennan was still trying to finish paperwork and prepare for her departure, Booth called. She'd tried to reach him several times, leaving messages on both his cell and home phones. After the fifth try, she'd gotten so angry at his irrational behavior that she'd left a long, rambling message regarding her ability to look after herself and his apparent lack of confidence in her competence. The message had gotten cut off, and she'd hung up feeling frustrated and furious and drained.

And now, he was calling.

"Are you still going to Oregon?" he asked, not even bothering to say hello.

"What do you think?" she asked, aware that her tone was what he would call pissy.

There was a pause – a long one, several seconds – before he spoke again. When he did, his voice had lost its hard edge. He certainly still sounded nothing like his usual light self, but it was better than it had been.

"So, about tomorrow night…"

She remembered the date they'd planned, and was surprised at how profoundly the thought of not going affected her.

"I understand," she said quickly. "I don't expect you to – "

"Bones, would you let me finish for once?" he asked.

She fell silent, setting her jaw in frustration as she waited for him to continue.

"Thank you," he said. "I was just gonna say, I'll pick you up at your place at seven. Wear something sexy, something you can move in."

"But…" She hesitated. "Booth, maybe we should – "

He sighed, sounding suddenly very tired. "Seven o'clock, Bones. All right? I'll be damned if I'm letting you leave town without one goddamn date. I'll see you then."

She hung up, completely baffled. Honestly, sometimes she felt as though she'd never truly understand her partner.

* * *

Friday was hell. Brennan couldn't believe that she'd agreed to leave now, without having taken more time to prepare the lab for her departure. Thursday night one of her interns was called home unexpectedly after a death in the family, which meant they were suddenly more shorthanded than she'd originally anticipated. In addition, the paperwork for the South African exchange still hadn't been sorted out, and really there seemed to be no shortage of issues that needed to be addressed and/or resolved before she left the next morning.

She was in the office by five that morning, after only two or three fitful hours of sleep the night before. She was tired, and stressed, and the last thing in the world she felt like doing was going on a date – a big date, their _first _date – with Booth.

In fact, Brennan was actually debating canceling the whole thing when Angela came into her office that evening at five-thirty. Angela rarely stayed past four on Fridays, so Brennan was completely caught off guard when her friend was suddenly standing over her desk. Glaring at her.

"Why are you still here?" she asked Angela, before Angela could say a word.

The artist crossed her arms over her chest. "I was about to ask you the same question. Don't you have a hot date tonight?"

Brennan rolled her eyes. Against her better judgment, she'd told Angela about her plans with Booth that evening – which meant that Angela had been somewhat unbearable for most of the day. Luckily, they'd been too busy for her friend to discuss the topic at the length Brennan was sure she would have liked, which was definitely the benefit to being completely backlogged in the office. Now, however, it appeared that Angela was prepared to make up for lost time.

She sat on the edge of Brennan's desk, completely disregarding the paperwork Brennan was still attempting to sort through.

"So, what are you wearing?"

Brennan pulled a folder from beneath Angela's behind, looking up absently for a moment before she refocused her attention on the documents inside.

"I don't know," she said distractedly. When she realized that Angela wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, she looked up again and reconsidered the question. "He said to wear something sexy that I can move in. I have no idea what that means."

Angela grinned, wriggling slightly on the desk as though her excitement was too much to contain. "It means he's taking you dancing, Sweetie. This is Booth – god, of course he's taking you dancing. Which means you really need to get out of here, if you're gonna be ready when he shows up at your door."

Brennan sighed irritably. It wasn't that she didn't want to go out with Booth, because she did – very much, as a matter of fact. Just not tonight, less than twelve hours before she'd be leaving the state for who knew how long.

"I thought I might see if we could postpone," she told Angela reluctantly.

Angela hopped off the desk and began gathering all of Brennan's files into a pile – including the one she was reading.

"You aren't canceling. All these people?" She indicated the files around her, many of which contained photos, drawings, and notes, of valuable ancient remains. "All these people are dead, Sweetie. They're just bones. They're not going anywhere. In case you haven't noticed, Seeley Booth is most definitely _not _just bones. And I promise you, if you keep this up, he _will _be going somewhere. Without you. He's asking for a few hours before you leave town, without him, for a pretty long time. You really don't think you can spare that?"

Brennan hesitated, and Angela sighed in frustration.

"The answer is yes, okay Brennan? Yes, you can spare a few hours to go dancing with one of the most delicious hunks of man meat in FBI history."

She dumped the rest of Brennan's files in her briefcase, retrieved Brennan's coat, and returned to her desk.

"Come on," she commanded.

"Angela, I just want to finish – "

Angela pointed at the clock. "Quarter to six, Bren. It takes at least twenty minutes to get back to your place, and then we need to find an outfit and do something girly with your hair and I'm betting you didn't shave your legs this morning, so…"

Brennan stood, feeling somewhat relieved now that Angela seemed to be taking over.

"All right, fine. But if this date is a disaster, I'm blaming you."

Angela helped her into her jacket, then turned her around so that they were face to face.

"It's not gonna be a disaster, okay? He _really _likes you, Bren. All you have to do is show up. The rest will take care of itself."

Brennan rolled her eyes, but Angela's words had an undeniably soothing effect. All she had to do was show up, she repeated to herself. For Booth, she could do that much.

* * *

Booth arrived at seven o'clock exactly. In a surprising show of graciousness, Angela had insisted on leaving the back way ten minutes before, so that Booth wouldn't feel uncomfortable. Which meant that Brennan was alone now, and unaccountably nervous. She kept reminding herself that she'd been on dates before, and she'd been hundreds of places with Booth before. She simply hadn't been on a date with Booth before – that combination, interestingly enough, seemed to have her stomach tangled in knots and her pulse beating far more rapidly than she thought entirely healthy.

Just before she let him in, Brennan checked her reflection one last time, and was slightly reassured by the image staring back at her. Angela had helped her choose a dress, settling on the red one Brennan had worn when she and Booth were in Las Vegas two years before. She wore heels and – at Angela's insistence – garters rather than pantyhose, though in the same breath Angela informed her that she shouldn't have sex with Booth tonight. Brennan had started to argue the point, but then the reality that she was actually debating when she and Booth _should_ have sex struck her as so… bizarre, that she'd just dropped the subject entirely.

She'd decided to wear her hair down, and Ange had worked some kind of magic to ensure that it curled but didn't frizz – though Brennan wasn't sure how well that would hold up given the humid air outside. She wore light make-up and a wrap instead of a jacket, and all in all she felt strangely… magical. Not really magical, of course, because magic was all about illusion and this relationship with Booth, it seemed, was no illusion. But she felt good, and confident, and ready to move forward. That seemed like a good start.

She remained feeling good and confident and ready to move forward until she opened the door and Booth stood standing there. He wore black, tailored trousers and a black t-shirt that hugged his chest and accentuated his impressive musculature well, his sport jacket over his arm. He carried a tasteful bouquet of wildflowers, and he didn't appear nervous in the least. He grinned when he saw her, raising his eyebrows until she was sure she was blushing like an imbecile.

"Wow. You look…" he paused, and she thought she saw just a trace of anxiety before he regained his composure. "You look beautiful, Bones. These are for you," he handed her the flowers, which she took and simply set on the counter before she remembered that she should actually do something with them besides set them on the counter to wilt and die.

"I'll just put these in some water, and we can go," she said.

He nodded, smirking just slightly. "Take your time. Reservation's not 'til seven-thirty."

She filled a vase with water, cut the end of the stems somewhat haphazardly, and then finally was ready.

"So, where are we going?" she asked.

He held the door open for her, and she felt that increasingly familiar thrill of electricity when he rested his hand at the small of her back as they were walking down the corridor.

"You'll see, Bones. Just trust me, would you?"

And she realized, not for the first time, that she actually did.

* * *

She'd never been to the club he took her to – had never even heard of it, as a matter of fact. It was in a questionable part of town, with limited parking so that they had to walk three blocks to get there. The night was warm, but the humidity had decreased and there was a slight breeze in the air. Though it was early, the streets were already filled with young people preparing to celebrate the weekend; Brennan found herself unexpectedly caught up in their euphoria, engaged by their laughter and manic shouts, the pulse of the city beneath her feet.

The club itself was a bit too dark and too off the main strip to be considered trendy – in fact, it looked as questionable as the neighborhood housing it. The faded red door had a sign affixed haphazardly to the side reading "HABANA" in faded black letters. It was situated between two other nondescript buildings, so that Brennan never would have even noticed the place if Booth hadn't steered her to the entrance.

Brennan loved it the moment she stepped inside, feeling as though she'd been transported to 1950s Cuba – the Cuba of Hemingway, of bright colors and secret corners and an air of mystery that she found immediately alluring. The first floor was for dancing, with few tables and a wide, open space lit with strings of Christmas lights and little else. There was a platform at the back with no one playing, though it appeared from the instruments waiting that a full band would take the stage later in the evening. Latin music played from an outdated sound system, loudly enough that she caught the beat but not so loudly that she had to shout when she turned to Booth with a smile.

"How did you find this place?"

He grinned back, as though he was pleased she liked it. "Long story. I've been coming here a while, though – it's great, huh?"

She nodded. He led her to a dimly lit, cramped stairwell at the back, going up first because there wasn't enough room for them to walk together. At the top of the stairs, he held the door open for her – she stopped walking, caught for a moment by the age-old paradox of Cuba, the dichotomy between light and dark. The walls mimicked a faded pink, stucco façade, accented with greens and blues, yellows and reds. The lighting was soft, each table set with candles and white linen. There were only a few couples there, most of them older than she and Booth, however in the next room there was a bar crowded with what appeared to be primarily older men, talking intently amongst themselves.

A small, trim man appearing to be in his sixties approached as soon as he saw Booth, menus in hand.

"Your usual table, Agent Booth?" he asked, a faint accent detectable in the words.

Booth gave the man a look that Brennan had difficulty reading, and nodded. "Yeah, Zeek, that'd be great. Zeek, this is my…" he paused, appearing somewhat flustered. "This is Dr. Temperance Brennan, my… date. Temperance," Booth grinned slightly when he said her name, and she found herself smiling back – as though they shared a secret joke, something no one else knew. "This is Zeek Villanueva, the owner of this place."

"It's wonderful," she said honestly. The man studied her for a moment, then nodded with what appeared to be approval.

"You made the right choice," he told Booth mysteriously, before he returned his attention to Brennan. "Agent Booth is typically a single patron here – except when he brings young Parker, of course. You're the first date he's brought… We were starting to wonder about him, my wife thinking she might need to find him a match." The man winked at Booth, smiling widely now. "Muriel will be pleased to know that won't be necessary."

Booth colored slightly, rolling his eyes. "Great, Zeek, thanks. Real smooth. You think you could just show us to our table now?"

They sat at a corner table in the back, and Brennan found herself wondering how often Booth came here. Alone, apparently. The thought intrigued her – the idea that Booth, who just seemed so social to her, would come to this place and sit alone. Did he bring a book, she wondered? She couldn't picture that. She could picture him with Parker here, though – Zeek and his wife fussing over the little boy, Booth guiding him through the menu.

"Hey, Bones," Booth said, pulling her from her reverie. She looked up to find him watching her, smiling slightly. "Stop thinkin' so much."

Rather than arguing, she merely nodded. All she had to do was show up, she reminded herself. "It looks like a good menu," she noted.

At this, he grinned – the wide, uncontained grin that she'd come to appreciate over the years. "Just wait'll you taste this food, Bones. Incredible."

He'd apparently tried almost everything on the menu. Bones eventually decided on the pollo con quimbobo y platanos, sitting back and listening with an undeniable feeling of awe when Booth ordered in flawless Spanish, chatting with the waitress for a moment about the evening's band before he lapsed back into English once the girl had left them alone. Brennan stared at him openly once the waitress was gone, and he rolled his eyes.

"What, Bones? Geez. So I speak a little Spanish – you really think I've never lived outside D.C.?"

She realized she'd never really given it that much thought. "You seemed so uncomfortable when we were in England earlier this year," she said.

"Well, that was England – it's different there, a lot stuffier than the places I like to go. And besides, I had a lot on my mind – a case I was trying to solve, that whole thing with Zack, and the next thing I know you're talkin' about sleeping with some archaeologist or whatever over there."

She studied him, not certain if he was being serious or not. "But I didn't," she said.

He nodded. He held her gaze across the table, and it seemed for a moment that he wanted to say something, but then he didn't. Brennan thought of the flight she'd be on in less than twelve hours – of the things she would face, the things she would leave behind. She wondered if this would end up being their only date; if something would happen while she was gone, he would find someone else or grow tired of her inability to let things go, stop thinking, simply be with him. Booth reached across the table and touched her hand, closing his fingers over hers and squeezing gently.

"Stop thinkin' so much, Bones," he told her again. He said it more quietly this time, and she wasn't sure but she thought she knew what he meant. She nodded.

"I'll try," she agreed.

Their food arrived a few minutes later, and the moment passed.

It wasn't until they were almost finished with their meal that Booth brought up Oregon. Up until that point, he'd steered the conversation away from the topic with no care for subtlety – Brennan had gotten the hint, and decided not to push for the time being. But then, just after she'd decided she would never be able to get up from the table if she had another bite of the most delicious, perfectly spiced chicken, okra, and plantains she'd ever tasted, Booth pushed his plate aside, wiped his mouth, and said in a deceptively casual manner,

"So, I talked to your friend today."

She looked at him curiously. "Which friend is that?"

"Alex Washington," he said, not looking away from her for an instant.

"Booth!" She'd been pushing the last remnants of her chicken around her plate, but now she set the fork down. "I told you, I wasn't supposed to tell anyone – "

He nodded. "I know. But, Bones – come on. You tell me you're going to Oregon to be the bait for some psycho nut job who gets off on torturing women, and I'm supposed to… what? Wish you good luck? You know me better than that."

She realized that this was actually true, but it didn't make her any less irritated. "What did he say?" she finally asked, genuinely curious.

Booth smiled slightly, quirking an eyebrow at her. "He said he'd been expecting my call. Apparently, after the third fight you guys had about keeping me out of the loop, he saw the handwriting on the wall."

She was honestly surprised. "He knew I'd tell you?"

Booth nodded, and she realized that for some reason this information had been important for him to have.

"Yeah, apparently so. So – we talked. I did some checking on him, talked to some of my buddies out there who say he's one of the good guys." He paused, taking another bite and chewing thoughtfully. Brennan could tell by the look in his eye, a hint of determination in the set of his jaw, that he was building up to something else she wouldn't like.

"So, I've got a few… well, let's just call 'em _requests _for now, for while you're out there."

She knew that by requests, he actually meant demands. Before she started arguing with him, however, she took a breath and said nothing. Booth looked at her in surprise, clearly having anticipated more of a fight.

The waitress came then to take their plates. Booth ordered another soft drink and Brennan asked for water, and then they were alone once more. She waited another moment, before she raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.

"So? What are your _requests?_" she asked him.

He appeared to be thinking something through, before he finally nodded. "Okay." He leaned closer to her over the table, keeping his eyes fixed on her own.

"I'm serious about this, Bones – you understand? I did some checking around – I looked at what this guy's done. And so this stuff I'm telling you – it's not just me being some overprotective asshole."

He took a sip of his Coke, wet his lips, and began.

"Two check-ins a day," he said, holding up two fingers. "One at noon, one at midnight – eastern time, not Oregon time. I'm not talking three-hour chats or anything, we don't even have to talk. But I don't want a text, I wanna hear your voice. Leave a message on my voicemail if you can't reach me."

Her eyes widened. "Booth!"

He held up a hand to silence her. "Just hear me out, all right?" He took a breath, his next words clearly ones he'd given a great deal of thought to. "This guy doesn't kill his victims right away – every one of those women was alive for at least eighteen hours before they died. That means if something went wrong, I have a window of about fifteen hours to get to you before it's too late."

She stayed quiet, struck by the weight of his words, the enormity of the connotations. Booth seemed equally impacted; he hesitated, taking another shaky breath before he continued.

"When you call, you use our code word – as long as you use that word, I'll know you're okay. If you don't use it, I'll know something's wrong."

"What's our code word?" she asked, uncertain whether she should already know.

"Palladin. From that case, remember?"

She nodded, recalling the lost boy and his frantic father several years earlier. It was before she'd even known Booth, really – didn't know he was a father himself, had no idea then how close to home the case must have struck.

"I remember."

"Good," he said. He pulled out his wallet and removed a piece of paper, handing it to her. On it were a series of names and telephone numbers, in Booth's handwriting.

"I'm gonna be doing a little investigating of my own from here. These are all guys I know out there – if any of them contact you, they'll use our code word. You hear that, you know it's okay to talk to them."

He pointed to a series of numbers at the top of the page next. "This is a special, high tech tracking device I told Washington he needs to get for you. You follow up on it, all right? I don't want something clunky that's gonna get lost if…" he paused, that familiar tic working in his jaw, and she felt an unmistakable chill at his next words. "If something happens to your clothes or somethin'. This kind – I did some checking, this is the best. If Washington tells you they can't afford it, you buy it yourself. If the FBI can't get their hands on one out there, one of my guys can. It fits right inside your ear, invisible to the naked eye. This guy won't be looking for it – he'll have no clue."

Brennan took a sip of water, feeling suddenly nauseas. And terrified. What the hell was she doing?

"Can I ask you a question?" Booth asked her, and she looked at him curiously.

"What?"

He took another sip of his drink, studying her in that way he had – as though he knew things no one else in the world understood about her.

"Did this guy – Alex Washington… Did he tell you about Abby Martin?"

She looked at him, surprised to find her eyes tearing the moment he said the name. "How did you know that?" she asked.

He smiled grimly. "Because if it was me – if I was trying to get someone like you to help me with the case, that's the story I would've told."

"What do you mean?' she asked, her tone cautious.

He sighed. "Bones, he picked that story because that was the one that would hit you hardest – there've been eight victims, you really think there weren't two dozen gut-wrenching stories he could've told? The guy read your file, knows your background. Washington wants you out there because he thinks you're the way he can get this guy off the street - he'll use everything he can to get you to do this. That's the way the game is played – trust me, if anybody knows that it's me. That girl, what happened to her…"

Brennan brushed her tears away quickly, her eyes fixed on the candle flickering at the center of the table instead of Booth now. Booth reached across the table and took her hand.

"Bones, I know it seems like you owe this girl something – you've connected with her story, and I get that. It only makes sense, what you two have in common. But Washington had no right putting you in this position. It's not up to you to set this right."

She bit her lip, waiting a few seconds before she trusted herself to speak. "I can't explain it, Booth – you know how I feel about psychology, it carries no significance for me. All I know is that I saw that girl's photograph, and I knew…" She swallowed hard, brushing away more tears impatiently. "I have to do this, Booth." She looked at him fiercely, trying to make him understand. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

He nodded, his hand still holding onto hers. Another moment passed before he sighed, looking at her with what appeared to be resignation. "Yeah, I figured that's what you'd say. But I wanted to make sure you knew the score. You're just a pawn to the Feds out there – they won't have your back the way I do."

She had no idea how to respond to this - to any of it, really. After a few seconds she finally attempted a smile, desperate for a change in subject. "So, does Washington know you're conducting your own investigation?"

Booth actually laughed slightly at this, though he still seemed grim. "Hell, no. But the sooner we catch this psycho, the sooner I know you're safe. I'll be out there in two weeks, and then I'm comin' out again on Labor Day weekend to bring you home."

She bristled at his tone, not pleased in the least at his proprietary air. "To _bring_ me home? Booth, I can take care of myself – I'm perfectly capable of coming home without you flying out there and dragging me back. In case you've forgotten – "

"Temperance," he said. She stopped talking, caught for a moment by the raw edge in his voice, the way he was looking at her – completely stripped bare for the first time, unable to keep up the pretense that what she was doing was all right with him in any sense of the word. Brennan found herself thinking suddenly of who he was, and where they'd been, and all the reasons she suddenly didn't want to go.

"Listen to me, all right? I can't do this any other way – I can't just put you on a plane and say, 'Good luck, I'll be here waiting for you when – and if – you get back.' I couldn't before we started... whatever we've started. I sure as hell can't now. This stuff… I'm asking you, Bones, all right? It's the only way I can do this."

She nodded, but yet again could think of nothing appropriate to say. She had an inexplicable urge to thank him, but she didn't know what for, exactly. Instead, she merely nodded.

He seemed slightly self-conscious after such a heartfelt speech. A moment of silence passed, their eyes never leaving one another, before he nodded toward the door.

"Now, if it's all right with you, I'd like to take my date downstairs and dance with her for an hour before I put her on a plane to god knows what. And if she plays her cards right," he gave her a quick, Boothesque grin that made her pulse quicken perceptibly. "She might even get a kiss goodnight, before I crash on her couch so we can get up at the crack of dawn and get her to the airport on time. Is that all right with you?"

She decided that it most definitely was.

* * *

She'd danced with him before, of course, but never like this. Downstairs, a full, ten-piece band complete with white tuxedoes and a brass section, was playing loudly. Though the dance floor was far from filled, there were roughly a dozen couples moving to the sultry Latin beat. They weren't moving the way people at Angela's clubs moved, however – there were no non-choreographed gyrations to be found, no clusters of young people smashing against one another in time to heavy bass and pounding hearts.

In fact, the couples on the dance floor – many of them considerably older than she and Booth, certainly none younger – all seemed to verge on professional status. They danced expertly to the music, their postures erect and every step polished. Brennan felt a definite twinge of anxiety, and tugged Booth's sleeve uneasily.

"Booth, I don't know any of those dances," she whispered as he leaned closer.

He merely grinned at her however, setting his jacket and her wrap on a chair before he took her hand.

"Just follow me, Bones – you'll do great. Trust me, you're a natural."

She wasn't so certain of that, however she had to admit that once she was on the dance floor in Booth's arms, the movement did seem almost intuitive. He guided her with a touch at her waist, a light push of his hips against hers, until it seemed she'd developed an innate understanding of where he wanted her next. Every time he touched her, the contact seemed to set her alight; she could feel her heart beating in her ears, her chest, seeming to carry down to the very soles of her feet. She felt energized, almost painfully aware of his hands on her skin, his breath on her neck, his body pressed tightly against her own.

During one of the few slower songs, he held her close with his head bent and his mouth at her ear.

"See, Bones? I told you you're a natural," he said softly.

It was overwhelming in every way, she realized. She didn't know where to begin – what to say to him, how to respond to the amazing night they'd had, how to thank him for caring the way that he did. For trying to keep her safe, when she knew she made it difficult. He shifted to look at her, and it seemed she'd forgotten air and space and time and every other concrete concept she'd always clung to.

"You're thinking again," he said quietly, that knowing smile on his lips. "You've really gotta cut that out, Bones."

She stood on her toes and kissed him then, right there on the dance floor, because she couldn't think of anything else that made any sense. He returned the kiss, his arms tightening around her, and she wished suddenly that she had superpowers, the way she used to imagine as a child. If she did, she would freeze this exact moment – before she left, or he did, or his brain stopped producing the chemicals that seemed to have him convinced that she was something she so clearly was not.

They continued kissing until he finally pulled away, looking flushed, and nodded toward the door.

"We should probably get going, you know? Because you have the uh – "

She nodded, feeling completely disoriented. "Right – the flight. The early flight. Of course."

He took her hand and led her through the growing crowd, and then kept holding her hand once they were out in the cool night air. They were quiet on the walk back to the car, and quiet on the ride back to the apartment, and quiet on the way up to her apartment. They'd already decided he was staying the night, of course – on the couch, he'd said. That wasn't her idea. In fact, she could think of nothing she wanted more at the moment than Booth in her bed, preferably without a stitch of clothing on, so that for the next six hours all she had to think of was his body and the countless things she wanted to do with it.

By the time they reached her apartment, Brennan had already resigned herself to the fact that that would not happen tonight. Which was why she was so surprised when, the instant she'd closed her apartment door, Booth was kissing her in a way that he most definitely had not kissed her before. He pressed her against the wall, his hands at her face before they moved to her waist, pulling her closer until she could feel him against her, hard and unmistakably ready.

"You make me crazy, you know that?" he said, his voice a husky whisper in her ear. He ran a hand up her side, then stopped at her breast and cupped it roughly through her dress, bending his head to trace a line of kisses along her collarbone, nipping sharply enough at her clavicle to make her gasp.

She reached for him, working her hands beneath the hem of his shirt to feel the hard muscles of his stomach tense at her touch.

"Is this what you meant by a goodnight kiss?" she asked, aware that she sounded rather husky herself.

He laughed, his breath hot on her neck before he moved to the spot he'd found behind her ear a few days before.

"Not exactly," he said, but she wished she hadn't said anything because a moment later he had most definitely slowed his advances.

"Booth," she said, her hands resting at the small of his back and her mouth at his ear. "I don't want to stop. Let's just…" she searched for words, finally settling on his own. "Stop thinking. Just tonight."

He leaned his forehead against hers, his hands on her face as he let out a ragged breath.

"Trust me, Bones, there's nothing I want more."

"But tonight's not the right time," she guessed, just barely refraining from rolling her eyes. Really, this was getting ridiculous. "You seem to have a great deal of rules regarding sex," she told him dryly.

He pulled away from her and grinned, clearly making fun of her. "Wow – Geez, Bones, somebody gets a little pissy when she doesn't get the big O."

"I don't know what that means," she said, though she actually did know what it meant, and was not pleased with how sulky she sounded for exactly that reason.

"Sure you do," he said knowingly. "Sorry, Bones, not gonna happen tonight. Because trust me, when it does we're not gonna wanna leave the _bedroom_ for a week – forget you leaving the whole damned east coast."

She leaned back against the wall, laughing at the absurdity of the entire situation when he readjusted his slacks somewhat painfully, waiting for his erection to subside.

"Oh, you think that's funny?" he asked.

She continued laughing. "Actually, yes."

He rolled his eyes, but he did chuckle slightly before he put his arm around her and kissed her quite sweetly on the forehead, leading her into the living room.

"Come on, Bones. You need to pack, and I need a cold shower."

"Maybe I could pack later and we could take a hot shower, together," she said, bumping her hip lightly against his as they walked.

He groaned. "You're killing me, Bones. You're goddamn killing me."

Later that night, Brennan lay in bed listening to Booth snore – loudly, as a matter of fact – in the next room. It was two a.m.; for the past two hours she'd been doing her best not to think about everything that would be set in motion with her flight in the morning. Because suddenly, with Booth's precautions and a stack of victim's photos fresh in her mind, Brennan was no longer so certain she was making the right choice. In fact, she was suddenly terrified that the choice she was making was the wrong one entirely.

She rolled over and closed her eyes, waiting for sleep.

TBC

* * *

**_So, Brennan is off to Oregon without her man. Don't worry, though - there'll be plenty of B/B goodness to come. I mean honestly, we all know Booth won't be able to stay away for long. Don't forget to hit the button below and leave your thoughts, and thanks for reading! - Jen_**


	4. Chapter 4

_All right, gang - here we go. So sorry for the lengthy delay, but from here on out we're shooting for a new update every Wednesday and Sunday... we'll see how it goes. Thanks as always for your incredibly generous feedback, hope this next installment keeps you coming back for more!_

* * *

Booth woke at five the next morning to the sound of the shower running. He was disoriented for a second, until he realized where he was – on Bones's couch, with a headache and a twinge in his back and a whole boatload of reservations about dropping his partner at the airport in an hour. He got up and tried to work out the kinks, thinking for just a second about surprising Bones in the shower – now _that _could cure what ailed him. And maybe if she got a good dose of the old Seeley magic, she'd drop this whole Oregon idea and just stay put for a while in D.C., where he could keep an eye on her.

He rolled his eyes, allowing himself a little groan of frustration. Yeah, like that was gonna happen. Instead, he pulled his t-shirt back on and went to the kitchen to raid the fridge and put on some coffee.

Bones came out a few minutes later, and kind of gave him a look when she saw him standing in her kitchen in his boxers – a little shy, actually, but he was also pretty sure she was checking him out. And based on the little flush of color in her cheeks, she liked what she saw. She looked tired, but she still looked damned good – her hair wet from the shower, wearing a tank top and pj bottoms he figured she only had on for his benefit, since it was hotter than hell in the place. She was a bestselling writer, right? It wouldn't actually break her to turn up the air conditioning a little.

He nodded toward the coffeemaker. "Coffee's on. I even managed to get some milk from the fridge without getting blown up."

She smiled just a little at the reference, before she went to the cupboard and got herself a mug. Booth gestured to the bathroom, trying not to look too desperate.

"You mind if I…?"

She looked at him blankly – he thought he'd have to spell it out for her, but she got it after a second and nodded.

"Of course, go ahead."

He headed in to brush his teeth and pee – definitely not in that order – and just about passed out when he stepped into the steamy bathroom, noting that Bones apparently liked the hottest showers known to man. He wiped the mirror and checked his reflection – there were circles under his eyes, and his hair was doing that weird thing it did before he had a chance to gel it down, but otherwise he'd pass.

When he came back to the kitchen, Bones was staring sort of blankly into the fridge. If she was just about any other woman he'd ever dated, Booth would've gone up and put his arms around her and gotten in a little morning make-out session to get the day started right. But, this was Bones – he still wasn't sure with her. Maybe she needed her space in the mornings. Or maybe she'd decided in the last six hours that the whole thing was a bad idea and they were back to square one. Who the hell really knew with her?

So, he settled for going over and standing beside her, crossing his arms over his chest and kind of tilting his head to the side while he studied the spot she was looking at.

"See, Bones, this is why you need a TV. Even QVC's better than standing here watching your arugula wilt."

She looked at him in confusion. "What?"

He rolled his eyes. "Forget it." He went to her then, tired of trying to read her and settling instead for going on instinct instead – it had gotten him this far with Bones, he figured he couldn't be completely off the mark.

He shut the refrigerator door and put his arms around her. She laughed a little, and said "Booth!" in that sort of exasperated way she had, but she was actually the one who kissed him first. God, he loved kissing her – loved the way she tasted, the way she held onto him while they were making out, the way she nipped his bottom lip and the genius damn things she did with her tongue… Yeah, it turned out kissing Bones had definitely been worth the wait.

When they stopped kissing, he pulled her into his chest for a hug. "You smell great," he mumbled into her hair.

"I just took a shower," she said seriously.

"Yeah, Bones – I know, I was here, remember?"

"I know you were here – I was merely pointing out that I smell good because I just showered. There's a logical connection – fundamental cause and effect."

Booth sighed, pulling away from her and heading back to the fridge. "Geez, Bones, way to kill a moment."

She looked like she felt bad at that, so he pulled her back and kissed her again, then turned his attention to the question of breakfast.

"So, what do you wanna eat?" he asked.

She made a face. "I'm not hungry – it's too early for food."

"You're gonna be on planes all day – you need protein. They don't even feed you on half the flights anymore."

He hunted around until he found English muffins, OJ, and jelly.

"Where do you keep your peanut butter?" he asked.

"I don't have any."

She was already headed into her bedroom to get dressed, so he followed her. "What do you mean you don't have any? Everybody has peanut butter. What, are you allergic or something?"

She looked over her shoulder just before she opened her closet door, making that face she did when he was bugging her. "No, Booth – I just don't really like it."

He leaned in the doorway, taking in the room. There wasn't a ton of stuff, but what was there was nice – deep, muted colors like she liked, some tapestries and kind of tribal art work. And a big, soft bed that Booth was pretty sure they could get lost in for days.

"How can you not like peanut butter? Who doesn't like peanut butter?"

"I don't." She pulled some clothes from her closet, then looked at him expectantly. He raised his eyebrows.

"What?" he asked.

"I need to get dressed. I'll only be a few minutes."

Hmm – now that sounded promising. When he didn't move, she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Waited, stopping just short of tapping her foot. He gave her the Seeley charm smile and waggled his eyebrows at her.

"I won't peek," he said.

She gave him a sexy little smile – then pushed him out the door and closed it behind him. So much for morning make-out sessions.

* * *

At the airport, Booth finally convinced Bones to let him carry at least one of her bags just before they reached check-in. Once her bags had been checked, he stood beside her in a security line that seemed to be moving way faster than any security line he'd ever been in before. Now that she was actually about to leave, Booth had a thousand more doubts than he'd had before, thinking of all the things that could go wrong – and all the ways he wouldn't be able to help her if they did.

"You remember what I told you last night, right?" he asked her, as she was taking off her shoes and getting ready to go through the metal detector.

"And a million times since last night – yes, Booth, I remember. Two check-ins, tracking device, list of associates…"

"Paladin – right, Bones?" he said quietly, desperately trying to make her understand how important this was. "P-A-L-L-A-D-I-N," he spelled out. "That's our word."

She rolled her eyes. "I've got it, Booth – but it's spelled with only one 'l'."

He looked doubtful. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

He made a face. "Well – whatever, it doesn't matter how the hell it's spelled. Just – that's our word, okay?"

"Got it – Paladin is the safe word. With one l."

He glared at her. "Right – with one l. And don't call it a safe word, it makes it sound – "

"Provocative?" She gave him a look that just about stopped his heart, raising her eyebrows with a suggestive smile.

"That wasn't the word I was gonna use," he got a hold of himself once more, and pulled her aside to let the next person go.

"Listen, Bones – you've gotta be serious about this, all right?"

He had his hand on her side, and he could feel all the warmth and the strength and the softness in that one spot. He wondered how long she'd hold it against him if he just threw her over his shoulder and took her back home, then locked her in her apartment until they caught this jackoff. But then he figured that once he got out of traction after the ass-kicking she'd definitely give him, they'd never speak again.

He was out of options, and he knew it. She was watching the line and going through her bag and doing just about anything but paying attention to what he was saying, until he caught her by the arm and turned her around.

"Temperance," he said, low and serious enough to finally get her attention.

She stopped and looked at him, and he suddenly realized the reason she'd been doing everything humanly possible to keep from meeting his eye. There was a second between them, just one second when everything stopped and he wondered how many times it was possible for one woman to break your heart. Because if just a look from her with those tear-filled blue eyes could knock his knees out from under him, he was pretty sure he didn't stand a shot of coming out of this thing alive. He stepped into her space, never looking away.

"Hey, Bones – it's gonna be all right," he told her.

She sniffled a little, and he pulled her into a hug. "You don't have to go," he whispered into her ear, once she was in his arms.

"I do," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. "I just wish I didn't have to go right now." She pulled away enough to look at him, her eyes still swimming.

"I have a great deal of work to get caught up on," she told him, sniffling a little. "There are a thousand things I have to finish at the Jeffersonian."

He smiled at that, seeing right through her. "Yeah, well, I'm sure the Jeffersonian will make it okay without you," he said gently, hoping she got it.

She swallowed. Another tear fell down her cheek, and she was kind of laughing and crying at the same time. "This is absurd – I'll see you in two weeks. And I'll be home in a month." She waited a second, looking at him the whole time. "I'll miss you," she finally admitted, and he knew too well how much it cost her to say something like that.

He wiped her tears away and kissed her forehead. "I'll miss you too, Bones."

She surprised him by reaching up and kissing him on the lips right there in front of Homeland Security, so hard that she just about broke his front teeth.

"I'll see you in two weeks," she told him. "You won't forget?"

He crushed her to him, then let her go. "I'm not gonna forget, Bones. Two weeks. Call tonight when you get there, let me know you're safe."

She nodded.

He had the urge to tell her he loved her, but he figured since they'd only technically gone on one date, that was probably bad form. Instead, he nodded toward the security gate.

"Go on, Bones, you'll miss your flight."

She nodded again. Wiped her eyes and sniffled and threw her backpack over her shoulder. Booth wondered if it was possible to have the lowest and the highest points in your life all within twelve hours' time. Because holding her on the dance floor the night before, feeling her move against him? That definitely made his top five. But sending her off to track down a serial killer without him?

Yeah, this wasn't a good moment.

"I'll talk to you tonight," she said as she walked through the metal detector.

He watched while she went through the security line, arguing with the guards the whole time. Just before she rounded the corner and vanished from sight, she turned and gave him a little wave.

It was official: Bones was on her own.

And Booth was in hell.

He went home and thought about grabbing a couple of hours of sleep, but ended up cleaning his place instead, then left at noon to pick up Parker. No matter how nervous he was about what Bones was about to do, it didn't change the fact that he was looking forward to a solid week of Parker time while Rebecca went to the Hamptons with Captain Fantastic – er, Brent.

Parker greeted him at the door with a big hug, then pulled back to look at his old man.

"You look tired, Dad," he announced. He was wearing cargo shorts and a hockey jersey Booth had given him a couple months back, his curly hair already in a tangle. The kid honestly killed him, the way he could read his old man.

Rebecca came in and looked at Booth as he straightened up from the hug, and Booth kept his eyes carefully on Parker.

"You do look tired. Big night last night?" she asked, obviously teasing him.

Normally, he would've made some smartass crack and that'd be that, but frankly he was a little off his game. Instead, he ended up blushing. Rebecca's eyes got big, and Booth was all too aware that Parker was watching this whole exchange.

"Who's the lucky girl, Seeley?" Bec asked.

Booth made a face. "It's nothing – forget it, I was up late and then I got up this morning to take Bones to the airport."

And she knew, like that. She didn't _say _she knew, but she definitely knew. Thank God Parker didn't get it though – Booth wasn't quite ready for that conversation yet.

"Well, tell Dr. Brennan I said hello when you see her again," Rebecca said, with that knowing little smile that always used to drive him nuts.

"Come on, Dad – let's go. Brent taught me this awesome soccer move, I wanna show you. And maybe on the way to your place we can get some burgers."

Booth gratefully turned his attention to his son, before Rebecca decided to start asking questions.

"You got it, bub. Now grab your stuff, give your mom a hug, and let's get going."

* * *

Hodgins called late that afternoon, which seemed weird until Booth realized that Angela must've put him up to it. Great, Bones wasn't even gone a day and people were already starting to feel sorry for him.

"I, uh, got box seats to the Nationals tomorrow. Ange is coming, and Tripp's visiting this weekend, so he and Cam will be there. I thought maybe you and Parker might wanna join us?"

"Box seats – seriously?" The Nationals weren't actually his team, but box seats were box seats. He put his hand over the phone and called to Parker, who was busy doing some kind of science experiment with Jello and Epsom salts in the kitchen sink. Booth gave a little internal sigh – he knew he'd regret letting his kid hang out with Bones's father.

"Hey, Park, you wanna go to a ballgame tomorrow with some of your old man's friends from work?"

Parker looked up, just barely, from his experiment. "Will Dr. Brennan be there?" he asked.

Booth shook his head regretfully, though he was kind of pleased to hear Parker looking for her. "No, pal – she's out of town right now. But Angela will be there – and Dr. Hodgins."

"Dr. Hodgins?" Apparently, this was big news – Parker nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, Dad, that'd be great. I have to talk to him."

Booth gave him a look – he wasn't sure about this new development, but what the hell.

"Hodgins – you still there?"

The other man came back on, after having apparently been talking to someone. "Yeah, I'm here. You cleared with the boss?"

"Yeah, we'll be there. Thanks for calling." He started to hang up, but held on when he heard some sort of commotion on the other end of the line before Hodgins came back on.

"Uh – Ange wants to know if you've heard from Brennan yet," Hodgins asked, and it was obvious from his tone that the question hadn't been his idea.

Booth rolled his eyes. "No, not yet – I dropped her off this morning, but her flight doesn't get in 'til tonight."

There was a pause and what sounded like a scuffle, and then he wasn't talking to Hodgins anymore.

"So, you took Bren to the airport this morning, huh?" Angela asked.

Booth sighed. "Yeah, Angela. I did."

"So, I guess it's safe to assume the date went well last night, then?"

"Goodbye, Angela," he said. And hung up, before she could ask anything else.

* * *

At the end of the day, after burgers and fries and soccer in the park and swimming at the Y and enough running around to keep Booth on the bench for a month, Parker finally passed out and Booth had a little time to get some work done. He got his briefcase out of the closet and pulled out the files he'd gotten so far on the Northwest Lady Killer. It wasn't much – he'd gone through back channels to get copies of the current case files, but that stuff wouldn't be delivered 'til Monday. All he had now were copies of the ME's findings and some photos of the victims, and basic background checks he'd done on each of the women.

He checked on Parker once more before he settled in; the last thing he wanted was for his kid to walk in and get a glimpse of some of this stuff. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, kept his phone next to him, and turned on ESPN. Once all that was done, there was really nothing else to do but sit down and start reading.

Eight women – at least, eight that had been found so far. They were all from either Oregon or Washington, all in their thirties. The first vic was Michelle Lowell – an office administrator, 33, in Woodinville, Washington. She was found in November of 2000, just a couple hours after her death. The next victim was higher stakes. Killed in March of 2001, she was actually a Portland District Attorney – Jess Aldridge. 36, single, lived alone. Both of the women were dumped off major highways just a short time after their deaths. Ditto for the third victim, Alyson Hamlin, Dean of Medicine at a small college in northern Washington, killed in January of '02.

After that, the guy's M.O. changed. He didn't stop killing, but he did stop dumping the bodies – instead, kidnapping, torturing, and killing the women, then apparently burying them in the plot of land the cops had just found in western Oregon. Five more women had been found, times of deaths ranging from 2002 to '04. Which meant five years had passed since this psycho had supposedly killed anyone. Booth didn't buy it, though – somebody like this didn't just stop killing once he had a taste for it. Alex Washington knew that, too; he wouldn't be so desperate to get Bones involved now, fast, if he didn't know something he wasn't telling them. Booth really needed to know what the hell that something was.

Booth pulled out the photos of the bodies and started reading the notes from the MEs. At this point in his career, the FBI agent felt like he'd seen just about everything – all the shitty things people did to each other on a daily basis, and he'd tried not to get too jaded as a result. But this guy… This guy was sick. Booth figured this guy was all about wielding power over strong women – the kind of loser who'd always felt intimidated by them in the past, and now got off on turning the tables.

Booth stopped at the photo of Abby Martin – Rachel Martin's dead daughter. There was a picture of the mother and daughter when they were still alive – laughing at the camera, the girl maybe a little older than Parker. He wondered what Bones thought when she saw this stuff – what it did to her, knowing this kid went through some of the same things she had, but didn't make it in the end.

He flipped to the next picture and got a sour feeling in his stomach. Rachel Martin's remains – the ropes had disintegrated over the five years she'd been buried, but her hands and feet were both tied when the killer put her in the ground. Her fingernails were torn from fighting, and her arm was broken from landing what must've been one hell of a blow. She didn't go easy, that was for sure.

He stopped reading the report when he got to the sexual assault – Jesus, he hated that part. As far as Booth was concerned, anybody that'd do that to a woman oughta be strung up. He knew Matthew was all about turning the other cheek, but Booth was pretty much Old Testament when it came to this stuff. He thought about Bones again, out there alone trying to catch this guy. That same sour feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and he went back to reading. The sooner he solved this, the sooner she'd be back. And he knew he wouldn't feel better until that happened.

Bones called at exactly midnight that night, just like they'd planned. Booth had fallen asleep with the files on his lap, but woke as soon as he heard the phone and picked it up without even checking the display.

"Booth," he said.

"It's me," she said. "I'm calling to let you know I got here safely."

He waited for her to say more, then made a face. "The word, Bones? What's the word?"

Nothing for a second or two – once she got it, he could picture the big eye roll. "Paladin. I'm fine, Booth."

He grinned, more relieved than he'd expected. Realistically, there wasn't much chance that something would've happened to her this soon, but he was already completely freaked out. Oh yeah, the next two weeks were gonna be a blast.

"Nice, Bones – see, now that wasn't so hard, was it? How was the flight?"

She yawned in his ear. "Fine. Uneventful. Crying babies and the occasional flight delay – nothing more exciting than that, however."

"Well, that's good, right? I mean, what kind of excitement did you want on your flight?" She didn't answer, but he hadn't really expected her to. "So, how's your place?"

There was a pause. He could picture her looking around, actually checking it out for the first time now that he'd asked.

"Very nice, actually." She said it like this was a surprise. "It's a little house not far from the campus." She paused. "You'd like it, I think."

He smiled a little, considering this. "Well – I'm looking forward to seeing it. Have you talked to Washington yet?"

"No. I'm scheduled to meet with him tomorrow at noon. Then there's some kind of conference faculty dinner I have to attend tomorrow evening. I'm not looking forward to it, particularly."

Booth nodding, imaging Bones hob-knobbing with a bunch of writer-types. "Well, just keep your eyes open – pay attention to the people you meet, especially anyone who signed up once you were brought on board. And I want you to ask Washington something for me tomorrow."

"What?"

He thought about it for a second, trying to figure out how he wanted her to ask the question.

"I want to know why he was so hot to get you out there when those bodies they found at the dump site weren't killed anymore recently than '04. What's the big rush? I mean, as far as we know this guy hasn't killed anyone in five years – he may be in prison for all we know, or moved on to some other part of the country. Or dead, for crying out loud."

She didn't say anything for a second after he finished, before she gave one of her exasperated sighs. "So wait – which part of that do you want me to ask? All of it?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, Bones – I mean, just get him talking about it, all right? We're missing something here, it doesn't make sense otherwise. I guarantee this guy Washington isn't being totally up front, and I wanna find out what he knows. Think you can handle it?"

"I'm sure I can, Booth," she said, with that little annoyed edge she got sometimes. "I've been practicing interrogation techniques – this will be a good opportunity to hone my skills." She yawned again. "I was thinking that perhaps I'd go over the case files again tonight, before the meeting with Washington."

Booth echoed her yawn. "You can do that in the morning, Bones – get some sleep. Did you eat something yet?"

He could picture another eye roll, and it wasn't until just that second that he realized you could be homesick for a person just as much as a place.

"I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself, Booth. Honestly, you and Angela treat me as though I'm some imbecile who's never survived on her own." A second passed before she said anything else, apparently reconsidering her words. "I suppose I could go to bed now and try to get some work done in the morning, however – I'm a bit more tired than I'd anticipated."

"Yeah, me too – your couch isn't the most comfortable thing in the world, you know."

"Well, I told you you didn't have to sleep there," she said. Her voice lowered just a little, with this hint of insinuation that set his blood on fire.

"We'd be a hell of a lot more tired than we are if I hadn't," he told her, happy that he managed to keep his voice even when he said it.

There was another pause, and he wondered what she was thinking. And doing. And wearing. Christ, he was hopeless.

"How's Parker?" she asked, completely out of the blue.

He took a second to recover from the whiplash brought on by the 180-degree change in subject before he answered.

"Good, good. Your Dad taught him some crazy Jello experiment that turned my sink and most of my kitchen green, and he's got some weird hero worship thing goin' with Hodgins, but… other than that, he's great. We're actually going to a ballgame tomorrow, with Hodgins and Angela and the rest of the crew. I guess Tripp came down to see Cam for the weekend, so they'll be there, too."

"Really?" Did she sound disappointed? He definitely thought she sounded disappointed. "Well, Parker should enjoy that – I'm sure he'll like Tripp."

Booth nodded. He hesitated, not sure if he should say what he wanted to or not. Finally, he decided to hell with it. "I wish you were gonna be there. We'd have fun."

There was a longer pause this time, and he thought maybe he'd said the wrong thing until he heard the sort of shaky smile in her voice.

"I wish I was, too. This is harder than I thought it would be."

"Well, you can always come home," he said quickly, then regretted it when he heard the edge in her response.

"You know I can't do that. I'll come back as soon as I can, but I've made a commitment – "

"Relax, Bones – Geez. I was just kidding. I know you're staying."

"Oh." Another pause. "Well… I should probably go. I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

He nodded. Took a breath, and let it out slowly. "Yeah – tomorrow. Get some sleep."

"Okay. You too. Goodnight."

She hung up. Crap. Sometimes he just didn't know what the hell to do with her – or about her. Couldn't figure out what she was thinking for the life of him. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she'd said she wished she could make the ballgame – and it sounded like she really meant it. If she was freaking out about them… well, he'd give her a little space, get the goddamn murders solved, and they'd go from there.

He gathered up the files, shut off the TV, and headed for bed, more than ready to call it a night.

* * *

Booth was actually grateful for a distraction the next day. Plus, it was good to see Tripp, the Outward Bound instructor who'd apparently swept Cam off her feet without tipping any of them off that he was doing it, back in Maine only two weeks before. He gave Booth a big hug when they met outside National Park, then leaned down to shake Parker's hand solemnly.

"Nice to meet you, Parker. I've heard a lot about you," the man told him.

Parker shook his hand politely, but it was clear he was too excited to make conversation.

It was hotter than hell out, and Booth was actually regretting his decision to wear jeans – Cam and Tripp were both in shorts, and they looked a lot more comfortable. Parker was revved up about the whole day, though so far Booth couldn't tell if he was more psyched for the ballgame or the prospect of hanging out with Hodgins all afternoon – which was more than a little disturbing. Hodgins and Angela weren't there yet, which left the four of them – Tripp and Cam, Booth and Parker – to get caught up before they arrived.

Booth grinned at Tripp, not missing the warning look Cam was shooting him – just waiting for him to start hassling her new boyfriend.

"So, Cam actually got you out of the woods, huh? You ready to leave Maine behind and hit D.C.? Smart guy like you, I bet I could get you a sweet job as a desk jockey at the Bureau. I mean, you know, as a favor to Camille here."

Cam rolled her eyes, but Tripp just laughed. He'd shaved and scrapped his Outward Bound gear for real world clothes, and he sure as hell smelled a lot better, but he still had that sort of earthy, comfortable way about him.

"Yeah, that'll be the day. Nah, I'm trying to convince Cam here to defect to Maine."

Booth looked at him in surprise. Cam rolled her eyes and sort of laughed, but she didn't actually look freaked out about such serious talk.

"Wow – pretty big words," Booth said.

"And that's _all _they are," Cam said immediately. "Just words." But she gave Tripp a look that told Booth it was clearly more than that.

He nodded knowingly, genuinely happy for her. "Yeah, right."

"I'm sorry Brennan couldn't make it – I was looking forward to catching up with her, too," the other man said. "Cam says she took a sabbatical to teach in Oregon?" He was looking at Booth like it was his job to explain the whole thing, which of course he couldn't do, so he just kind of shrugged.

"Yeah, well – it's Bones, you know? Who can figure her out?"

Hodgins and Angela showed up then, which was good because Tripp was kind of giving him the eye, obviously not convinced. But since the tickets had officially arrived, he let the subject slide.

Inside the stadium, Parker almost had a stroke making sure he could sit between Booth and Hodgins. Booth eyed his son uneasily, definitely not sure what this was all about. He found out as soon as they were seated, however – in awesome seats just behind the dugout, with a perfect view of the action.

Parker pulled a small box out of his pocket, and nudged Hodgins.

"Dr. Hodgins – check this out," the boy said excitedly.

Booth was honestly touched at the attention Hodgins gave his boy, totally ignoring the action around them when Parker opened the box to reveal… well, a bug. A big, hairy, dead bug.

Great. Forget playing center for the Flyers or being the first man to walk on Jupiter or something – his kid was gonna grow up to be a squint.

"I found this the other day," he said.

Jack looked closer, nodding enthusiastically. "Wow – nice work, my man. You know what this is, don't you?"

Parker shook his head, totally enthralled.

"This, my friend, is _Megacephala virginica _– the West Virginian tiger beetle. Awesome specimen. These little beauties aren't easy to find, either. Where'd you get him?"

Parker looked at Booth proudly, and Booth pretty much melted. So, his kid was gonna be a squint – there were plenty of worse things out there.

"Did you hear that, Dad? I found it when Mom and Brent took me camping a couple weeks ago. I've been saving him, so Dr. Hodgins could see." His son put the bug back in the box with great care, then stowed it back in the side pocket of his cargo shorts.

The national anthem started up then, and Booth got to his feet. He didn't have to prompt Parker to join him – the boy stood at attention with his hand over his heart and his eyes straight ahead until the song was done, Booth proudly doing the same. And for those few minutes, he did his best to put his fears about Bones and the killer and the case aside, and just enjoy the moment. He had an uneasy feeling times like this would be few and far between in the weeks to come.

* * *

Sweets showed up at the bottom of the sixth inning, noticeably missing the squint he was supposed to be dating. Booth thought he looked a little beat up, taking his seat without saying much to anyone before he got lost in the game. Of course, Booth didn't actually waste too much thought on it – he was too busy trying to keep Parker lathered in sunscreen and prevent him from eating his weight in hot dogs, generally just enjoying the day out with his kid. The game wasn't actually a great one – the Mets came on strong from the start and by the top of the seventh it was all over but the shouting. But Parker still got fired up about the whole thing, and the rest of the crew just hung out and visited, tipping back a few beers and generally enjoying each other's company. All in all, it was a pretty good day.

At the end of the game, with Parker recapping the highlights as they were all headed out of the stadium, Booth picked up the pace to catch up with Sweets, who was walking on ahead.

"Sweets – hey, listen, I need you to do me a favor."

The psychologist looked at him suspiciously. He had on a Nationals hat and was carrying a foam finger, but he still didn't look all that happy about life.

"What kind of favor?"

Booth put his arm around the other man's shoulders and steered him toward the gate – all the while keeping his other hand on Parker's shoulder, so he didn't end up losing his kid in the crowd.

"Just take a walk to the car with me, all right? I'll explain everything there."

Booth had actually given this some thought. He wasn't big on bringing Sweets in on cases a lot of the time, but the guy really did know his stuff. Outside the stadium, the afternoon was still way too hot – Sweets complained a little because he was parked in the opposite direction, but Booth could tell he was curious.

Back at the SUV, Booth started up the car and got the air conditioning going before he told Parker to get in and buckle up. Once his kid was safely inside with his Gameboy and the music on low, Booth grabbed his briefcase and pulled out a stack of files.

"I need you to work up a profile for me," he told Sweets.

Sweets took the files and started looking through them, stopping when he read the name of the second victim.

"Wait a second – these are the serial murders out in Oregon, aren't they? Is this – " he stopped, looking at Booth knowingly. "You're not actually assigned to this case, are you?"

Booth sighed. "Look, Sweets, just do it, all right? Go through the files, and do that thing you do where you figure out where the guy came from and how he feels about his mother and who he's gonna kill next. You know, the usual."

"I could get in trouble for this," Sweets insisted. "There's protocol to follow in these types of situations for a reason – you can't just start poking around in another office's cases. And why, exactly, are you – "

Booth gave him one of his dead-still looks, and Sweets got quiet.

"Just do it, all right? Listen, we both know you owe me – "

"For what?" Sweets asked incredulously. "You almost broke my nose in Maine – I'd say that more than compensates for whatever emotional distress – "

Booth checked to make sure Parker was still playing with his Gameboy instead of paying attention to what was happening outside. Once he was sure his kid wasn't watching, he took a step toward Sweets. There wasn't a trace of humor on his face.

"You let my partner believe I was _dead_, just to satisfy your own curiosity. For some stupid brainiac experiment, without thinking twice about what it would do to her. Trust me – just because I popped you once in the nose in Maine doesn't make us close to even."

Sweets got it. He flushed a little and swallowed hard, but he didn't actually back down.

"You know, the type of physical aggression you display in matters concerning Dr. Brennan doesn't actually correlate with the professional relationship you two continue to insist – "

Booth rolled his eyes and let out a big, long-suffering sigh. "Jesus, Sweets, just shut up and look at the files already, wouldja? And don't tell anyone what you're doing – we'll grab a bite on Wednesday, and we can talk about it then."

Sweets looked undecided until he opened one of the files and began reading. Within a few seconds, Booth could tell he was hooked.

"It is a fascinating case," Sweets admitted.

Booth gave him a grin and clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "All right, that's the spirit. I'll talk to you about it in a couple days. And remember, Sweets – not a word to anyone. I'm serious."

Sweets nodded. Booth expected him to launch into a speel about professionalism and confidentiality and some other bullshit line, but it turned out he was too interested in the files. He sort of mumbled goodbye, still reading as he started the long walk back to his car.

* * *

Bones was still at the writer party when she called that night, which meant they couldn't talk. Booth listened to the sound of people around her and sort of low, jazzy music he didn't recognize in the background, and was really kind of miserable about the whole thing. She didn't have time to tell him about Washington's answer to his question, or whether she'd noticed any homicidal nut jobs lurking in the shadows – she gave him the code word, said she was at the party, they said goodbye. Like in the old days, only worse because at least back then he could pretend he didn't care and go back to his normal life. Now, Bones _was _his normal life. And he definitely cared.

He put his files away and forced himself to go to bed, not wanting to freak Parker out by being crashed out exhausted on the couch in the morning. As he was drifting off, he did a mental countdown of the days until his flight to Oregon. Less than two weeks – twelve days, actually. He'd survived some pretty horrific things in his life; he could survive twelve days without seeing Bones, not knowing whether some psycho was gearing up to make her his next victim.

Yeah, he'd survive.

He just prayed that Bones would.

TBC

* * *

**_And there you have it: Poor Booth, all alone in D.C. without his girl. Let me know if you think the pace is too slow or anyone's OOC, and if you're still interested in the mystery itself. Thanks for the great feedback, keep it comin'! And remember: The next chapter will be up on Wednesday. See you then! - Jen_**


	5. Chapter 5

_All right - the Wednesday update, as promised! Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who's left such great reviews - you guys are the best. On your behalf, this chapter is a little (okay, a lot) longer than I'd originally expected. We have a lot of ground to cover, though, so we best get started..._

* * *

On Monday afternoon, Booth grabbed a burger on the way to the Jeffersonian and ate it on the drive over. When he stepped onto the platform, the memory of making out with Bones in her office that night – almost a week ago now – popped into his head. He lingered on it for just a second, before pushing it aside and getting to work.

Angela was doing some kind of arty-computer-dead-guy drawing, but she smiled when she saw him coming.

"I need you," he announced.

She grinned widely at him. "Y'know, another time, another place and I would _totally _take you up on that. I don't know how big Brennan is on sharing, though."

Booth looked around in alarm, hoping no one else had heard. He gave her a little hairy eyeball action, and nodded toward the door.

"C'mon, I need you to come with me. We're going to art school."

She raised her eyebrows at him when he tried to pull her up out of her chair. "I've already been to art school. And you clearly have me confused with somebody else here – auburn hair, big blue eyes, kinda clueless about the ways of the world? Yeah – that's the one you can just manhandle into doing your bidding."

He took a step back, getting antsy. "Come on, Angela, quit fooling around. The class starts in half an hour, and I-95's backed up about a mile."

She saved whatever it was she was working on and stood with a sigh. Booth noticed that Hodgins was watching what was going on from a safe distance, doing that thing where he pretended he was working but obviously was focused on why Booth was manhandling his girlfriend. Or whatever Hodgins and Angela were these days.

"Have you cleared this with Cam, or am I gonna get a slap on the wrist in addition to getting even more behind on my work than I already am?" the artist asked.

Booth handed her her jacket, shouting over his shoulder at Cam as he led Angela toward the door.

"I need Angela for the afternoon – I'll bring her back around two."

They were out the door before Cam had a chance to answer one way or the other, and he was already briefing Angela on the details of the case before they'd even pulled out of the Jeffersonian's guest parking lot.

"So, we're lookin' for the guy who did these paintings here, okay?" He kept one hand on the wheel and leafed through the case file with the other, until he came to a couple of laser-scanned pages – one of a lopsided vase and some flowers, the other one a kind of weird half-boat/half-man thing that looked like something Angela would paint.

Angela took the file from him before he veered into oncoming traffic, bracing herself against the dashboard. She looked a little pale, so he tapped the brake and ordered himself to slow down. It had already been a crazy day, and it wasn't even one o'clock. By the time he'd dropped Parker at day camp at eight, he and the kid had already gotten in a morning run – Booth going at half-pace, but noting that his son was developing a kind of easy stride and was getting better at going the distance as he got older. They'd done a little virtual racing on Parker's Xbox, and even managed to squeeze in a full breakfast at the diner on the corner.

Then Booth had meetings about the current case all morning, and had taken Bones's check-in call on the run that afternoon. And now, he was still on the run – it was just a little tougher when he had Angela running with him. He looked at her quickly before returning his eyes to the road, tapping one of the pages she was studying.

"My guys at the Bureau figure based on the paintings and the stuff we found in his backpack, we're looking for a white male. Late teens, early twenties. We think he's a student at D.C. City College, we just don't know… well, anything else, really. But I remembered how you said once that the way a guy paints is like fingerprints, right?"

He glanced at her again. She was looking at the rest of the file, obviously interested. Booth took that as a good sign.

"Well – yeah, that's right," she admitted. "But I don't know if I can tell by just going into a classroom and looking over everyone's shoulders, which one is the guy. And what did he do? I mean… What if he gets suspicious? Who _is _this guy? Booth, you can't just come to the lab and throw a bunch of files at me and just expect me to come along for the ride – that's not exactly fair."

Damn, he really missed Bones. Okay, yeah, she'd be just as bent on getting all the facts as Angela was, but at the end of the day she'd be a lot more gung ho about the whole thing. He tried for an apologetic look, and started from the beginning.

"There was a hit last week out by the docks – Vinnie 'Knuckles' Almarose, bigwig in the mob for about twenty years, was killed. Behind one of the warehouses, our guys found a backpack with art supplies in it, and those paintings that are in the file. No ID, nothing but some paints and some pencils, and a brochure from the City College with a couple classes circled."

He took a left quicker than he maybe should have, and saw Angela hold a little tighter onto the dashboard. Another tap on the brakes, before he continued.

"The way I figure, this kid is out there doing his thing – you know, painting the water or the sunset or some half-boat-monster thing, and he sees the hit. Panics, drops his bag, and runs like hell."

Angela's eyes got a little wider – she looked like she was freaking out.

"How do you know the mob guys didn't get him, too?"

"Because they're mob guys," Booth said instantly. "If they knew he was there, they would've swept the place and taken his backpack. Or, more than likely, just killed him right there and not bothered to clean up the mess." He shook his head decisively. "No body, no blood, nothing but the backpack. The kid's still out there. And somebody like Vinnie Almarose gets whacked, it's not gonna be by some no-name schmo – this kid saw something big."

"And you need me to find him," she said. Yeah, she was definitely freaked out. Booth pulled into the student parking lot, put the car in park, and let it idle. It was another hot day, but there were no shortage of students, everyone in shorts or skirts, lots of iPods and baseball hats. Nothing Angela couldn't handle – he told her as much.

"It's not a big deal, okay? Come on, now – you think I'd let something happen to you?" He gave her the old Seeley grin, but all she did was roll her eyes. "Bones'd kill me. Just go in, do your thing – do a little painting, chat up the guys in the class, see what you think."

She took a breath, kind of made a face at him, but finally nodded. "Okay – yeah, sure. Why not? It's not like the mob guys know about this guy – they're not gonna see me and freak out and fit me for cement shoes and sink me to the bottom of the Chesapeake." She looked at him. "Right?"

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "Right." He reached over her to open the car door. "Just remember – you're not goin' in to bust the guy, all you're there to do is figure out if he's there. If he is, he's already gonna be spooked as hell. Get his name, finish the class, report back to me. I'll pick you up here in about an hour. Got it?"

She nodded, a little flash of determination crossing her face. About damned time. "Got it. I'll see you in an hour – but if I'm doing this for you, you are _so _giving me the dirt on you and Brennan on the way back to the lab."

He rolled his eyes, maybe blushed a little. "Yeah, I figured that was comin'. Just go – we'll see how you do."

The kid wasn't in class that afternoon, but there was a watercolors class the next day that Angela agreed to try. On the ride back to the Jeffersonian, Booth waited for her to start grilling him on his date with Bones, but she was surprisingly quiet. After a few minutes of silence, he finally looked at her sideways before returning his eyes to the road.

"Everything okay?"

She nodded, but it was like she was pulling herself back from another planet. "Yeah, yeah. I'm just… distracted, I guess." She went quiet for another couple of seconds before she seemed to get her head back into the game. "Now, about that date. I kept my part of the bargain – now it's your turn."

He looked at her again, not fooled for a second. It wasn't clear exactly what was going on with her, but there was definitely something. Since the artist obviously wasn't ready to tell him what, though, he let it slide. Instead, he spent the rest of the ride dodging her way too personal questions about him and Bones, relieved when Angela finally seemed to shake whatever was bugging her and start acting more like her old self.

The rest of the day was pretty standard, then home for dinner and hanging out with Parker before another late night going through the files that he'd had sent by courier from Oregon. Bones was in the middle of a conference thing again, which meant another crappy, half-assed conversation before they hung up and he went to bed.

* * *

Tuesday was more of the same, except Bones was half an hour late for her noon check-in. By the time she called, Booth and Angela were halfway to City College for the second day of classes. He snapped open the phone with a sideways look at Angela, who must've picked up on his mood when she first got in the car because she'd been silent almost the whole time.

"You're late," he snapped into the phone.

"Paladin," Bones snapped back. "Booth, this is completely pointless – I can't stop workshops every morning just to placate you."

"You aren't placating me," he said, but there wasn't much more he could add because Angela wasn't supposed to know about this whole serial killer manhunt thing Bones was on. "You're gonna get a call from a friend of mine today – Artie Wharton. He'll talk to you about that thing we talked about." Meaning, of course, the tracking device, but he couldn't exactly say that in front of Angela.

There was the sound of people talking in the background, which meant Bones was probably in a classroom somewhere. "What thing?"

"You know – the thing. The ear thing. The _thing_, all right?" he said, immediately frustrated.

Angela was looking at him. "If this is some weird code for sex between you two, don't hold back on my account. I don't judge."

He kind of growled at her. "It's not a sex thing," he said to Angela.

"I didn't assume it was," Bones said immediately.

"What?" he asked Bones, completely lost now. "Just talk to the guy, all right, Bones?"

"Wow, you are _way _too tense," Angela was saying. She raised her voice so Bones could hear her. "Isn't there something you can do about that?"

"Is that Angela?" Bones wanted to know.

Booth took a deep breath, shot a killing look Angela's way, and tried to get Bones back on the right track.

"Yeah, it's Angela. We're on a case. Now, about the thing. Just talk to Artie, all right? I don't want you out there another day without the… thing. How's your day going – any big developments?"

"Not since I spoke with you twelve hours ago, no." She sounded impatient. "I have to go – I'm in the middle of a workshop, this was the first time I could get away." She paused, and he tried to read her voice. Came up short. Finally, she gave this little sigh that sounded frustrated. "I'll talk to you tonight."

She hung up, and Booth did the same. He clenched his jaw, and glared out the window. Trying to talk to Bones face-to-face was hard enough a lot of times, but at least when they were together, he knew how to read her – what it meant when she started kind of chewing on her lip, or when she crossed her arms, even the way she looked at him told him all he needed to know about where they stood. Take all that away, though, and he suddenly didn't have a clue where the hell she was coming from.

"Brennan, huh?" Angela asked, even though she clearly knew it was.

"Yeah."

"She sucks on the phone," she noted. Booth turned to look at her, a little more interested in the conversation now.

"Yeah, she does."

"She's always reading something while I'm talking to her – I'll be knee deep in some major drama, and all of a sudden I'll hear the computer beep or a page turn."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it. Or she's running off somewhere, and doesn't have time to talk."

He pulled into the parking lot, and let the car idle. More students, more iPods, more sunshine. The whole thing struck him as depressing, but after a second he admitted that that probably wasn't City College's fault.

Angela turned to him with a sympathetic smile. "Don't give up on her, okay? She's trying. She's just, you know… Brennan."

Did he ever.

The painter guy wasn't in Tuesday's class, either. Booth took Parker to Chucky Cheese for dinner that night, then had yet another crappy phone call with Bones before he turned in. She called from some writers' mixer thing, loud music and lots of talking in the background, and he was just about to throw the phone through the window when the music died down and he could actually hear her.

"Tomorrow night when you call, I'll be at my apartment," she said. "We'll have an opportunity to catch up, then."

He felt a weird flush of relief. "Yeah? I mean, I know it must be crazy there…"

"Just hectic – I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. And you can fill me in on your conversation with Sweets. I'm e-mailing you a roster of the students in my workshops and seminars tonight – I've highlighted those that signed up at the last-minute or that seem inordinately interested in me or my books."

Booth nodded. "Good – that'd be great, Bones. Did Artie get in touch with you?"

"He called this afternoon, but I haven't spoken with him yet. I'll get back to him tomorrow."

"First thing, all right, Bones? I want you wearing that tracker – he'll set it up, you won't have to worry about a thing. But I don't want you out there another day without it. I'm serious."

She gave a little huff. "Fine, Booth – I said I'd talk to him." The music got louder, then softer again, like someone had opened and closed a door – she must be in the bathroom or something. "I should go. I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, Bones. Talk to you tomorrow." He snapped the phone shut and lay back on the couch, too tired to even think about going through the killer's files again. It could wait until he had more to go on – like a profile and a class roster.

He turned on ESPN with the intention of just checking out the day's highlights before bed. Five minutes later, exhausted from living life as a triple threat – father, FBI agent, and secret serial killer hunter – he was sound asleep.

* * *

Wednesday started out better. Bones's e-mail was waiting in his inbox when he first got to his computer, once he'd dropped Parker at day camp. The roster was a hell of a lot longer than he'd expected – he figured she was just doing a workshop or two, but it turned out that they'd booked her solid for the next month. She led three workshops and a seminar each week (Booth didn't know what the hell the difference between a workshop and a seminar might be, but he was sure Bones would set him straight), in addition to doing a reading and a couple of panel discussions.

Frustrating as it was to have such a long list of potential suspects, Booth couldn't help but be proud of her – it seemed like anyone and everyone wanted in on a gig with bestselling writer Temperance Brennan. At the end of the roster, at the very bottom of the page, he grinned at the words that waited.

"I miss you."

It wasn't like it was some big declaration of love – no exclamation point, no all caps or fancy font or anything. But it wasn't the sort of thing Bones would just write lightly, he knew. He imagined her writing it and then deleting it, thinking it over and over before she finally rewrote it and hit send before she could change her mind again.

His step was a little lighter when he walked into Wong Foo's that afternoon, well aware that he was a sentimental fool. He couldn't help it, though – she missed him. Dr. Temperance Brennan, world renowned forensic anthropologist and bestselling author, missed him.

Yeah, it wasn't a bad day.

Well, it wasn't until he saw the look on Sweets's face.

The psychologist was waiting for him when he got there at twelve-thirty. Booth was used to Sweets looking serious – he was always giving him and Bones that holier-than-thou, wiser-than-his-years look that drove them both nuts. But, this wasn't either of those. This was frankly a little… freaked out, and Booth had a feeling he wasn't going to like the conversation they were about to have. He sat down across the table from the younger man, grabbing a menu casually while he tried to get his stomach to unclench.

"Hey, Sweets," he said, like this was just them grabbing lunch the way they had a thousand times before. Except, you know, they never really did that.

"Agent Booth," Sweets said, managing to look almost as unconcerned.

They both ordered, then Sweets didn't wait long before he got down to business.

"I couldn't help but notice an interesting coincidence," he started. Booth groaned a little – well, he groaned internally. Externally, he kept his face neutral and waited for Sweets to continue.

"It strikes me as unusual that you've taken an interest in this case at exactly the same time that Dr. Brennan has taken a sabbatical to teach at an institution located at the geographic epicenter of these crimes. I can only hope that it is, indeed, merely coincidence – particularly given just how perfectly Brennan fits in with the killer's typical victim profile."

He looked at Booth expectantly. There were any number of things Booth could say at this point – he could deny it point blank, tell Sweets Bones had a personal connection with the writing conferences and that was why she was out there, or just plain tell Sweets to shut up and give him the profile. Instead, he decided it might be a good idea to have an ally who knew the whole story, from the ground up. A second or two passed while he let Sweets twist in the wind, before he shrugged.

"It's not a coincidence. The Feds out there approached her – this guy apparently has a connection to her, somehow. Writing they found at a couple of the scenes is from one of her books."

Sweets looked completely dumbfounded. "So you thought the best idea would be to just send her into the middle of it?"

"Yeah, Sweets," Booth said, making an effort to keep his temper. "That's exactly what I thought. 'Cause God knows, the one thing I'm always trying to do is throw Bones _into _the middle of a firefight."

"So, you didn't want her to go."

"Of course not. But you know Bones – she gets something in her head, it's pretty hard to talk her out of it."

"She read about Rachel and Abby Martin," Sweets said, and it wasn't a question.

Booth nodded, impressed that the psychologist had picked up on that fact as easily as Booth himself had. "And that was pretty much the end of the story. So, what I need to do now is figure out if this guy is still around, who and where the hell he is, and then get him off the streets before he gets within a hundred yards of my – " he stopped, realizing what he'd almost said. He cleared his throat. "Of Bones. Which is where you come in. So… Go. Profile."

Sweets opened the file, for once keeping his mouth shut instead of arguing. He leafed through a couple of pages before he finally looked up, that same kind of freaked out look on his face. He chose a couple of photos of the first two victims, then pushed them toward Booth right-side up. Michelle Lowell and Jess Aldridge, he knew without checking the names. Booth knew all of them by heart, by now. He took a deep breath, and studied the pictures yet again.

"Let's start with the process itself – based on what I've read so far, the photos I've seen, this is apparently the killer's _modus operandi._" Sweets took a breath and paused for a second, like he was trying to figure out where to start.

"Each victim suffered a blow to the head that, upon examination, was determined to be the first blow dealt – to the right side of the forehead. Which means the victim saw him coming. Each woman allowed this man to get within a foot or so, apparently without seeing any real cause for alarm."

Booth nodded, trying not to look impatient. "Yeah – right, they already decided based on that that the women know this guy. And trust him."

"Right. So… He strikes a blow significant enough to render the victim unconscious, then takes her somewhere where they can be alone. Over the next twenty-four hours, there is a distinct shift between two phases of the attack – which is unusual, not something I've seen before. The first phase is rage-induced. And this, I think, is where you're going to find that my views differ from any profile that's been created of this killer to date."

Booth looked up at this, genuinely interested in what Sweets had to say. "How so?"

Sweets leaned forward in his seat, kind of lowering his voice – like he didn't want someone to overhear them or something.

"Based on the amount of time between each murder, and the fact that it doesn't appear the rate of killing has increased in the past several years, I don't believe this killer starts out with the intention of murdering these women. He's looking for a partner, not a victim; each time he meets a woman fitting the profile, he views her as a potential mate. There has to be some catalyst that pushes him, makes it clear that he is wrong, yet again – the woman doesn't live up to his standards.

"Once that happens," Sweets continued, "he becomes enraged. Strikes a single, calculated blow before removing the woman to his lair. The brutality of the ensuing attack suggests someone with a deeply personal vendetta against the victim."

Booth thought about this, jotting down a note or two in the file while Sweets talked. The restaurant was getting more crowded, couples and friends and business partners all having lunch together with no clue what kind of lunatics were out there.

"So, he gets mad," Booth summarized, tired of dwelling on that detail.

"He gets very mad," Sweets agreed. "During this phase of the attack, there's no pattern to the abuse, no leniency, no thought to anything but punishing this woman who – in his mind, at least – has betrayed him. He chooses women who fight back, and he doesn't restrain them at this point. The more intense the physical altercation, the greater sexual pleasure he derives from the experience."

Booth thought of Bones, and felt sick to his stomach. The waitress brought their food but he pushed it away without even looking at it. Sweets didn't look all that enthusiastic, himself.

"But eventually he gets over the rage and gets on with the second phase of the killing," Booth said.

Sweets shook his head. "No, actually – he doesn't." He looked at Booth significantly, like he was waiting to see if the FBI agent would be surprised at his next words. "In fact, _he _never gets over the rage. The second phase of the attack is restrained, calculating, ritualized. Performed by an obsessive compulsive personality who has likely been killing or fantasizing about killing since early adolescence…"

Booth nodded, not surprised at all. "There's a second killer. They work as a team."

The psychologist actually looked disappointed. "Well…yes, precisely. Why did you bring me in on this if you already knew? I'm sure there have been profilers studying this case for years – I could just look at the files and tell you if I think they've gotten anything wrong."

"Because I want you lookin' at it fresh – I don't want you swayed by anything anybody else might have come up with. And the thing about the first perp not intending to kill the victims from the start? That's new – no one else came up with that. What else have you got?"

Sweets took a second to think about this, going through the file again. "The second killer is clearly the dominant member of the team. Likely older, and I don't believe these women are his only victims. Others may have been missed because they don't fit the victims' profiles, but I don't believe this type of personality would be able to wait six months or more between victims. The gratification achieved during the act of killing is far too great – at this stage of his life, likely in his late thirties to forties with a sexually compulsive personality, he is literally addicted to the act of torturing and killing. It's the only way he achieves any type of sexual fulfillment."

Booth let out a long, slow breath. God, if he never had to think about this case again it would be way too soon – it was honestly starting to freak the shit out of him. The details were always what got to him. He wished he could be as distant as Bones sometimes, could just forget who the victims were and how terrified they must have been through the whole thing. Sweets was watching him in that way he had, like Booth was a lab rat in a maze.

"This is a very disturbing case, Agent Booth. If you'd like, we could set a time to discuss its impact…"

Booth rolled his eyes. "Forget it, Sweets. We're getting somewhere here – just keep going. So, we have the first guy, who falls for someone fitting the profile, gets pissed off, takes them. He beats the crap out of them, rapes them, then hands them over to the second guy. That's the gist of the whole thing. So, why'd they switch from dumping the bodies to burying them out in the woods? You think the cops were getting close and they had to cool it a little?"

Sweets sat up straighter in his chair, like he'd been giving this some thought.

"I think it was the influence of the second killer. To the original perpetrator, these women are no longer worthy of being near him – he despises them. Wants nothing to do with them after their betrayal, which is why the first three victims were tossed like trash on the side of the road. The second perpetrator, however, will continue to view his victims as possessions long after their deaths. I believe that, for him, it became too painful to part with the women after they'd been killed. It's a common theme among serial killers - John Wayne Gacy, Edmund Kemper, even Bundy were the same in this respect. Gacy buried his victims under his house, Kemper believed he possessed the women's souls after death, Bundy went back to gravesites and – "

Booth held up his hand, pushing his wonton soup away with a grimace. "Yeah, I got it. Jesus." He paused, thinking again of the years that had passed since the estimated time of death for the last body. "And you think they're still out there? Still doing this?"

Sweets didn't hesitate. "If the second killer is still alive, he's unquestionably still performing these same type of ritualistic slayings, yes."

"But the first guy? What'd he, grow out of it?"

"No, that's unlikely. He will have continued to fixate on women whom, he believed, might meet his criteria for the perfect mate, only to be disappointed. That disappointment leads to feelings of betrayal, leading to uncontrollable rage."

It wasn't an unexpected revelation, but Booth hated to hear it all the same. "So, there's another graveyard somewhere. More victims. You think they're still in that area, still working together?"

Again, no hesitation. "No question about it. Something ties them to this area – in all likelihood, they were both raised there. They may be related, possibly even siblings with a highly matriarchal family structure."

Booth managed a grim smile. "Mommy issues?"

"Oh my god, are you kidding?" Sweets said, actually sounding kind of enthusiastic about it. "These guys were Freud's wet dream. They were likely raised by a single mother, who was most certainly a professional in some capacity. Domineering, ridiculing, possibly sexually abusive."

"All right, great. So, tell me how I can catch these guys. If they're still alive, they're still in the area and they're still killing. What about specifics? Age, height, weight, that sort of thing."

By the time Sweets was finished, Booth was already running through the student roster Brennan had given him. There were two-hundred-and-forty-two people on that list, but a lot of them were women. So, if Booth could just narrow down the student roster based on what Sweets was telling him and go from there, he'd have a viable list of suspects in no time flat.

Sweets was watching him while he ran down the list, and he had a feeling he was about to find out why.

"Do you mind if I make an observation?" he asked.

Booth grimaced. "Can I stop you?"

Sweets didn't even acknowledge the comment. "In my professional opinion, Dr. Brennan is putting herself in an extremely dangerous position by going out to Oregon alone to work on this case."

Booth started to tell him that she wasn't alone, she had an agent she was working with out there, but Sweets held up his hand.

"Please, hear me out. This case would resonate with her on two very deep, emotional levels – she is undoubtedly identifying both with the orphaned child, Abby Martin, and with the victims themselves – all of whom were strong, accomplished women very much like Dr. Brennan is. I believe that as time goes on, she will be unable to create the distance necessary to remain objective and pursue the matter in a rational manner."

It wasn't like he hadn't thought of all this before – Booth knew exactly what Bones was thinking by going out there, which was why he was having such a hard goddamn time fighting her on it. It didn't make it easier to hear Sweets saying it, though.

Booth was just about to explain all of that to Sweets when his cell phone rang, and their conversation was pretty much shot to hell from there. He checked the display, intending to let it go to voicemail, but picked up as soon as he saw the number for Parker's day camp listed.

"Seeley Booth."

The woman on the other end of the line started out by saying Parker was fine, which didn't actually set Booth at ease – especially when she followed up by telling him that his kid was at Valley View ER with a broken wrist after falling off the jungle gym. Booth pulled out a twenty and threw it on the table, told Sweets they'd talk later, and took off for the hospital without an explanation.

All the way there, he kept thinking about this case he had once, where a guy had broken his arm when he was just about Parker's age. The doctors had set it wrong and the guy's arm never grew after that, and by the time the guy was eighteen he was up on drug charges for trying to score painkillers because his arm always hurt. And just like that, he was just another low-life scumbag Booth was trying to keep off the streets.

Okay, yeah, there were probably other things going on with this guy besides the screwed up arm, but Booth was willing to bet that arm played some part in everything from that point on. He thought about calling Bones – she'd know about this stuff. There was a reason he called her Bones, after all; this was kind of her area. He started to make the call, changed his mind, and hung up before it went through.

Once he got to the hospital, it took a solid ten minutes of yelling at people before they finally took him to Parker.

Who, it turned out, was sitting on the exam table with a sucker in his mouth, his right arm in a bright orange cast up to the elbow. Booth was just about freaked out of his mind; Parker, on the other hand, had a surprisingly relaxed grin on his face, chatting away to the day camp director, who'd apparently been the one to take him to the hospital. The director was a pretty woman in her twenties who, Booth suspected, Parker had kind of a thing for. She looked nervous when she saw the look on Booth's face, but Parker just shot his old man a smile when he caught sight of him.

"Dad! Did you hear what happened?" His eyes were wide, all set to dive into what had clearly been a pretty memorable day.

Booth took a second to regain his cool before he took off the director's head in front of his kid. He went over to Parker and kissed the top of his head, unable to help getting a little emotional when he thought of his son in pain.

"You okay, bub? What happened out there?" He tried to keep his tone light, but he had one eye on the director – the woman definitely got the message.

"I was at the top of the jungle gym," Parker told him. "And Chris and Griffin both said they bet I couldn't jump from there to the monkey bars next to them – remember, like I showed you I could do that time?"

Booth eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Yeah, but I was hangin' onto you that time, Parks – remember? Come on, buddy – you gotta think, you can't just take every bet that comes your way just because it's a bet."

Parker's eyes started to water, his lip quivering. Booth caught the look on the camp director's face – clearly, she thought he was the single biggest jackass on the planet.

"Hey – don't cry, Parks, it's okay." He gave him a hug, smoothed his hair from his forehead. "I was just worried about you, y'know? It's okay, I'm not mad."

The doctor came in then, and started spouting techno-bone-babble that made Booth's head spin. He took another look at Parker, thought of that freakshow with the deformed arm now doing time for petty larceny, and decided to hell with it.

He dialed Bones.

He hadn't actually expected her to answer, but she did – on the first ring, as a matter of fact.

"Paladin, Booth, all right? Paladin. I'm fine."

He rolled his eyes, already feeling like an idiot for making the call. "I know, Bones – that's not why I'm calling. You got a minute?"

"That's all I have, actually – I'm in the middle of a seminar, but we're taking a break. Do you have any idea how many smoking breaks writers require?"

He shook his head. The doctor was waiting, looking more and more put out at the hold up, and Booth was really starting to wish he hadn't called. A broken arm was a broken arm, right?

"No, Bones – a lot, probably. Listen, I was wondering if I could run somethin' by you?"

There must have been something in his voice, because for once she didn't argue.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately.

He cleared his throat, deciding to hell with it. This was his kid, after all – what was the point of dating somebody who knew bones if you couldn't call in a favor about them every once in a while.

"It's Parker. He's okay – " he said quickly, before she thought something horrible had happened. "But he fell off the monkey bars and broke his wrist."

He heard someone say something to Bones in the background, then heard her reply – muffled, like her hand was over the phone, "Start without me – I have to take this."

A couple seconds passed, and she was back.

"Which specific bone was broken?" she asked. He could tell he had her attention now, by that kind of crisp, no-nonsense tone in her voice.

Booth couldn't hold back a relieved smile. "I don't know, Bones – his wrist bone."

"Was it intra- or extra-articular?"

Booth shook his head. "I don't know – it's broken." He snapped for the doctor, who was talking to the camp director. "Hey, Doc – is the break inter or…" he returned to the phone. "What the hell am I asking him, Bones?"

She sighed, just like he'd known she would. "Is the doctor there? I'd like to speak with him."

At this, Booth grinned outright. "Yeah? That'd be great, Bones, thanks. He's right here. Dr. Willard."

He handed the phone to the twelve-year-old trying to pass for a doctor – honest to God, the guy made Sweets look like Father Time. "My partner wants to talk to you – Dr. Temperance Brennan."

That got the kid's attention. Booth went over and hung by Parker while Bones grilled the doc, who was looking more put out by the second. Finally, he took the phone away from his ear and looked at Booth again.

"She wants to talk to you," he said.

Booth took the phone back, just waiting for Bones to deliver the news that his kid would never pitch again.

"He has a distal radius fracture – a very simple break. It was neither open nor comminuted, so assuming it was set properly there should be no orthopedic issues once the cast is off. I've asked that the doctor e-mail me a copy of the films, so I can verify he didn't miss anything. But based on the information I've been given thus far, I see no cause for concern."

Booth breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Yeah? So, he's fine – no big deal. God, that's great." He gave Parker a thumbs up. "Thanks, Bones."

"Stop thanking me, Booth, it's not a problem. Is Parker okay?"

Parker was motioning for the phone, still not looking the least bit traumatized by a broken wrist and the clunky orange cast he'd have to wear through the rest of the summer.

"Can I talk to her, Dad? I've gotta tell her something."

Booth hesitated. "Can you take another second – the patient wants to say hi."

She laughed a little – that low, kind of sexy laugh that he'd always loved. "Of course. Put him on."

Booth stood by while Parker told Bones in excruciating detail all about the pop he heard when he hit the ground, and how bad it hurt, and how he hadn't even cried. She said something to this that made Parker laugh, and he looked at Booth.

"Dr. Brennan says she _definitely _would've cried, Dad. But that's just 'cause she's a girl. If it was you, you wouldn't've cried, right? You would've been tough, like me."

Bones must have said something to that, because Parker looked uncertain for a second before he cracked up. Booth quirked an eyebrow at him and held his hand out for the phone.

"All right, wrap it up, buddy. I don't think I like the two of you crackin' jokes I can't hear."

Parker giggled a little more, said goodbye, and handed back the phone.

"I'll let you get back to your classes – we still on for tonight?" Booth asked, aware that Parker was watching him a little too intently.

"Of course – I'll talk to you then."

They hung up, and Booth was amazed at how much better he felt. He wasn't sure whether it made him a bad person to be thinking of his girl at a time like this, but he was suddenly grateful she was in his life. And judging by the way Parker was grinning, his kid was pretty pleased about it himself.

* * *

The novelty of the whole cast thing had worn off by the time they got home that night. Booth wasn't surprised – Parker had been a trooper, but this kind of thing had to be pretty traumatic for the little guy. He whined through dinner, threw a little bit of a tantrum when Booth told him it was time for bed, and finally fell asleep crying in Booth's arms at around ten.

He sat cuddled up with Parker for the longest time that night, brushing the curls from his damp forehead while he flipped back and forth between an old Cary Grant flick he'd always liked and a ballgame he didn't really care about. This was the sort of thing he remembered from when Parks was younger – not that he'd had him much when he was a really little guy, but once Rebecca started letting him keep his son overnight, these were the moments he sort of held onto. The other things – the ballgames, the amusement parks, the zoo – were great, but he didn't really feel like that was actually what being a father was about. This, though… These were the times when he felt like he and Parker really had that connection, the one he'd always wished for with his own old man. This was when he felt like he was doing something right.

At a little before twelve, he carried Parker into his room and tucked him in, making sure not to jostle his arm when he put him down. Bones called a few minutes later and, though Booth was tired as hell by that time, he found himself unexpectedly recharged when he heard her voice.

"Paladin," she said, first thing.

He grinned. "So, you miss me, huh?" he said, finding it hard to believe that he'd just gotten her message that morning. It felt like about a week had passed since then.

He pictured her eye roll, maybe even a little blush. Damn, he really missed seeing her.

"I knew I shouldn't have written that," she said.

"Yeah, well – too late now, Bones. I've got it in black and white, right there for the world to see. Five days gone, and you already miss that old Seeley magic."

She was quiet for a second; he waited, giving her time to figure out what came next. She'd definitely be blushing by now, right? Or just getting pissed off at him – doing that thing where she kind of grit her teeth, gave him the evil eye.

"How's Parker?" she finally said.

Apparently, Parker was the go-to subject when she didn't know what else to say – Booth smiled a little, pleased that he'd recognized the pattern. He briefed her on the hospital and the meltdown that followed, before he changed the subject completely by asking her whether or not she'd gotten the tracker from his buddy yet.

She paused after the question, which meant no. "I didn't have time to call him back today."

"First thing tomorrow, Bones – I'm serious. If you don't have it by tomorrow night, I swear to God I'm taking the next flight out."

She did one of those big huffy sighs that always drove him crazy. "Fine, Booth. Did you talk to Sweets?"

He nodded, reluctant to move on. "Yeah, I did. He thinks that profile Washington gave you the other night is right – that there are two killers, but he says the first one isn't starting out with murder on his mind. And he's the one you'd actually meet up with, probably – late twenties, early thirties. Maybe kind of good looking, definitely in shape. Sound like anybody you've met so far?"

She laughed. "Booth, I'm at a writing conference on a college campus. Almost every man I've met thus far is in shape, good looking, and in his late twenties to early thirties. You've described the majority of my students."

Okay, that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Great, that makes me feel better. And I bet every one of 'em has a thing for you, too."

Another laugh – he was glad he could be so goddamn entertaining. "You're being ridiculous. Trust me, these men are far more interested in what I can do for their careers than any romantic inclinations. But I'll go through my student roster and see what I can determine. No one else comes to mind immediately, though there's a professor who's apparently new here – Jason Farnham. He's already admitted that he signed up when he learned I would be at the conference."

"What's he like?" Booth asked, immediately jotting the name down.

"I don't know – he's been very attentive, but he doesn't fit the profile. Forties, probably, though I don't know that he's in terribly good shape. He's at least twenty pounds overweight, a smoker. Very tactile."

"What do you mean, tactile?" Booth asked, narrowing his eyes.

"It means, you know, touchy."

"I know what it means, Bones – geez. I mean, _how _is he tactile? Are we talking tap on the shoulder or copping a feel in line?"

"The former, Booth," she said. "He just seems to have a poor understanding of personal space, but he hasn't been particularly inappropriate."

Booth thought about it. She was right, it didn't actually fit the profile, but he wasn't throwing anything away just yet. He underlined the name, making a mental note to do a background check in the morning.

"Okay, so Jason Farnham. Who else?"

She gave him another couple of names, including a teaching assistant and a couple of students who'd crashed the party Sunday night and had been hanging around ever since. Then, Booth turned the conversation to Alex Washington.

"What'd you find out?" he asked. "Did you ask him about the whole thing like I told you to?"

"I asked," she sounded reluctant, which he assumed meant the conversation hadn't gone well. "He wasn't particularly forthcoming."

"Well, what'd he say? You asked him why he was so convinced the killer was still out there, right? Why it was so important for you to be there now?"

"Yes, Booth – that's what you told me to ask, so I asked him."

"And?" Jesus, sometimes it was like pulling teeth with her.

"He said he wasn't at liberty to discuss that particular aspect of the case at this time."

Booth sat up straighter. "He what? And you let him get away with that? What the hell, Bones? If I gave you that kind of bureaucratic bullshit, you'd kick my ass."

"Would you let me finish telling the story?" she said, and there it was – that goddamn eye roll again, he could just see it. "I told him that if he didn't give me the particulars, I would take the next flight back to D.C., and he could handle the case on his own from there. He refused at first, but then I got on the phone and began booking a flight…"

Booth grinned, laughing a little. "Nice, Bones. So, what'd you get?"

"He gave me the files of six women fitting the previous victims' profiles, who have all gone missing in the last three years. The last was three months ago."

Okay, that made more sense. The sense of dread Booth had been feeling ratcheted up about six notches – he realized suddenly that he'd been clinging to the idea that maybe, just maybe, something had happened to put these guys out of commission five years ago. Now, though, that last hope was gone. They were still out there, still stalking and kidnapping and killing. And Bones was still right in the middle of all of it.

"Can you e-mail me copies of the files? And did Washington say why he couldn't tell you this stuff – it seems pretty basic to me."

"He said it was because none of the women who were missing had officially been designated a part of the investigation. He didn't want the families to panic if word got out."

Something about the story hit him wrong, though Booth wasn't sure what. Technically, he guessed it made sense – they'd just found those other five bodies a few weeks ago, and no doubt the families of the other women who'd vanished were already starting to put two and two together. If Washington wasn't sure he could trust Bones, he might want to keep her in the dark rather than risk her somehow letting the cat out of the bag about the connection. Still, Booth was dying for another face-to-face with Agent Washington – he didn't care how much his buddies out there vouched for the guy, something wasn't right about this.

"Booth?" she asked. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, Bones, I'm here. All right – so, your job now is to get that tracker tomorrow, and e-mail me the files of those missing women. Think you can handle it?"

She kind of sighed, but it wasn't a yeah-I-can-handle-it-stop-asking sigh, it was more like a tired-as-hell sigh. "I can handle it."

"Are you sleeping?" he asked. "I mean – you know, getting to bed at a decent time, all that? And eating? You've gotta eat, Bones."

"I can take care of myself," she told him, for the thousandth time in the five years he'd known her. "I just want to get this finished as quickly as possible, and come home."

"Me too, Bones." He took a breath, let it out. The apartment was quiet, a little too warm, a little too empty. Even with Parker in the next room, it felt like something was missing. "I miss you too, you know? A lot."

"You'll be here in nine days," she said, sounding kind of sad. "There's a park in my neighborhood that's very pretty, and some hiking trails nearby."

"Nine days, huh?" he asked, smiling at the words. "So, are you counting the hours, too?"

He could practically hear her blush. "Very funny. I was merely saying that I think you'll like the area – "

"Relax, Bones. Trust me, I've got my own countdown going." He hesitated, then decided to hell with it. "And I've got about a hundred things I've been dying to try once you're in my arms again, so I'm not really plannin' on much hiking."

"Well, that sounds very… promising," she said to his surprise, her voice lower than usual, a little husky. He'd listened to her use that voice with other guys, but never him – it would definitely go down as one of the sexiest things he'd ever heard.

"Trust me, baby – you get me out there and I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure you never want me out of your sight again," he told her, his voice just as husky as hers. As sexy phone talk went, it was pretty harmless as far as he was concerned. Still, he found himself holding his breath, waiting to see how Bones would react, whether she'd run or make fun of him or just plain shut down. Instead of freaking out, though, she kind of laughed - still low, still sexy as hell.

"You should get some sleep," she told him, but there was something in her voice that told him she'd be sorry to hang up. "It's later there than here, you must be exhausted. I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

He nodded, sighed a little. God, he hated this part. "Yeah, Bones – talk to you then. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Booth," and she hung up.

Booth lay back on the couch, still thinking of her when he closed his eyes, still replaying the conversation in his head as he fell asleep.

Nine days.

TBC

* * *

_**I know, I know - they're still apart? I won't be detailing every single day like this, but I did need to get some details in there to get things rolling. Are you guys bored yet? Anyone OOC? Do you think it's taking too long to get to Oregon, or were you okay sticking with Booth this long? Click the button below to give me your thoughts and, as ever, thanks for reading! - Jen**_

**_Next update will be Wednesday, March 11 - too many deadlines pending for a two-chapter week right now, but I promise Wednesday's chapter will be plenty long to keep you sated!_**


	6. Chapter 6

_Okay, guys - here it is, after a much longer-than-anticipated wait. Thank you all for your patience and kind words, you folks really are fabulous. And because of that patience and those kind words, this chapter is very, very long. A double chapter - it might even be considered a triple one, in some circles. Hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

Her first night in Oregon, Brennan slept fitfully before waking for good at four a.m., her body not yet acclimated to the time change. The neighborhood was quiet, as was the house. As was the world, it seemed. Agent Washington had given her the choice between this house and an apartment closer to campus – she couldn't resist the former as soon as she saw the photo, a cute little two-bedroom bungalow on a hillside in Northwest Portland. It had rose bushes and forsythia in the front, and a pretty stone walkway leading to the front door. It came furnished with an eclectic mix of odds and ends – a red loveseat with black elephants marching across its cushions; an Albert Einstein wall clock above the kitchen stove; an antique, roll-top writer's desk that she loved instantly.

The master bedroom was on the second floor. There was a mahogany, four-poster bed and matching bureau, plush bedding, soft carpeting underfoot. It opened onto a balcony overlooking a small, fenced backyard. That morning, Brennan stood outside at the railing in her pajamas with a hot cup of coffee in hand, watching as the horizon lightened and the day officially began. Though she was doing her best not to, she couldn't help but think that Booth would like it here. If everything worked out and he was, indeed, able to visit in two weekends, she thought he would actually like it very much. And, if she were being completely honest, she would like having him here. Very much.

She brought her clothes upstairs and put them in the closet. Set up her laptop and printer on the dining room table, along with her prodigious collection of files and crime scene photos. She checked in with Booth, who was on his way to the baseball game with Parker, spent more time perusing the Lady Killer case files, and then got ready to meet Washington at a café he'd designated a few blocks away.

Portland is a well-planned city, with numbered streets running east to west and names – in alphabetical order, of course – from north to south. Brennan's bungalow was on Northwest Glisan and 26th, a trendy neighborhood flanked by cafes and clubs on one side and Forest Park on the other. When she'd told Booth this just before leaving, he'd quickly researched the area and informed her that Forest Park contained nearly 5,100 wooded acres, thus gaining the distinction of being the largest wooded park within city limits in the country.

"That's a lotta acres for serial killers to hide in, Bones," Booth reminded her, at the end of that particular conversation. "Just do me a favor and stay out of that park."

This morning, at least, she had no intention of going near Forest Park. Instead, she walked east along Glisan Street, toward the Willamette River. There was a Trader Joe's, Fred Meyer, and a Whole Foods within a few blocks of her house, which meant she was within walking distance of any groceries or other household items she might require. She passed parks and thrift shops, funky looking houses, and an abundance of almost unnaturally friendly people walking unnaturally happy looking dogs.

She stopped at a Thai restaurant on 20th Street, where Agent Washington was seated outside waiting, wearing shorts and a black t-shirt that made no secret of his well-defined upper body. An overweight bulldog was seated at his feet, a thin strand of drool hanging from his jowls and his eyes fixed on Washington's plate of spring rolls.

Washington and the bulldog both stood at Brennan's approach, the bulldog shuffling toward her with no apparent malice. Washington had instructed her prior to the meeting that they were to act like old friends, in case someone was already watching her. Acting in the role he'd cast, she accepted his embrace before leaning down to pet the bulldog's head. The dog wheezed slightly and sat down on his wide haunches, blinking up at her when she stopped petting it. The agent gestured toward the chair opposite him, and the two sat down.

"Dr. Brennan – it's nice to see you again," he said, keeping his voice low. "The bully's name is Burly. I figured he could use the exercise."

She nodded politely, though she wasn't particularly interested in the detail. Anxious to get started on the case, she sat down and retrieved her files and paperwork as Washington did the same.

"So, are you getting settled?" he asked.

She offered a dry smile. "I'm beginning to. But I've primarily been researching the case in my spare time, and then of course there are the manuscripts I still need to critique for the workshops starting tomorrow. And the Jeffersonian."

He smiled, appearing much more relaxed than he had in D.C. "I'm sure – I know you have a lot on your plate right now. To be honest, you can actually kind of let our case go at this point, though… You're already doing your part on that one."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I'm sorry – I don't know what you mean."

"Temperance, relax," he said, reaching across the table to pat her hand – a gesture meant to convey the casual intimacy of two old friends, she knew. "You're here to lure the perp out of hiding, not solve the case. That's my job."

"And in the meantime, I'm merely to appear as exposed as possible, mindlessly going about my days for an indefinite period of time, until this person – or persons – decides to come out of hiding to kidnap and torture me?"

She said all of it with an easy smile, laughing slightly as she returned his gesture – patting his hand, perhaps with more force than would otherwise be appropriate. Alex winced, looking around to make sure no one was observing them.

"Honestly? That's exactly what you should be doing – though not indefinitely, because you're leaving at the end of the month. But just sit back and play the role – I know what I'm doing."

She studied him, thinking of her conversation with Booth the night before. An attractive woman of Asian descent – though likely Vietnamese rather than Thai based on her bone structure, Brennan thought – came and delivered two Chai iced teas and a fresh order of spring rolls, as Washington had just given the last of the previous order to the bulldog. A couple walked by laughing, their hands entwined. Burly lay down and a moment later began to snore. Brennan thought for a moment, trying to imagine how this conversation would go if Booth were the one having it.

After a moment's hesitation, she dropped the pretense that they were old friends. She looked directly into the agent's eyes, trying to read him.

"Booth says you're not telling us everything."

His eyes remained impassive, lacking any trace of uncertainty. A tiny shadow of a smile came and vanished an instant later, before Brennan was even certain she'd seen it.

"Does he, now?"

She nodded, leaning in more closely. Burly's snoring increased in volume, and Washington looked more amused at her than intimidated.

"He says there has to be another reason you want me here now, when the last victim was killed almost five years ago. He's right, too. Logically, you've given me no evidence to suggest these people are still killing. Or are even in the area."

And there it was - a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, before the agent shook his head. His right hand moved to the ring finger of his left reflexively, and she saw him look down as though just realizing something. He set both hands on the table with great care, but it was too late – he'd broken their gaze first.

"How long have you been divorced?" she asked.

He looked at her in surprise, something like respect crossing his features. He rolled his eyes, nodding toward the empty ring finger.

"We signed the papers about three months ago. Just stopped wearing the ring, though. Good catch."

She nodded. This was something Booth had taught her – establish a personal connection, then go in for the kill. "Alex, what aren't you telling me?" Use of the first name gave her a psychological advantage, though she was loath to use the term.

Unfortunately, Agent Washington had apparently learned the same interrogation techniques Booth had; he smiled widely, leaning closer to her as he said,

"I'm sorry, _Temperance_, but I'm not at liberty to share that information at this time."

That did it.

Brennan sat back in her seat, giving him her most withering glare. "I'm not staying on here if you don't tell me the truth. I'll go back to D.C. this afternoon, and never look back. I assure you, the Jeffersonian will be more than happy to forget all about my sabbatical."

He didn't drop his eyes, but she could tell he was debating. He rubbed his chin absently before finally shaking his head. She was ready for the gesture, though. Even as he spoke his next words, she was dialing information.

"I can't give you those details," he said.

"Portland, Oregon," she said to the automated voice on the other end of the line. "PDX International Airport."

She put her hand over the phone, leaning in to Alex as the automated voice rattled off a number.

"I just love that they'll automatically connect you, don't you? I never seem to have a pen to take down the number. I mean honestly, it's so much – "

She stopped speaking, holding up a finger to shush Alex before he could respond. He clearly wasn't certain whether or not she was bluffing.

"Hi – yes," she said, when an operator for PDX answered. "I have no airline preference, but I'd like to book a flight Portland to D.C. for this afternoon. Could you help me with that?"

The same tic Booth got when he was angry began pulsing at Washington's jawline.

"All right, all right – just hang up, and I'll tell you what I know."

She felt a little rush of pride, wishing Booth could have seen her in action. A moment later, Alex was telling her about the women who'd gone missing over the past three years. All fit the profile, all vanished without a trace – one as recent as three months ago.

"Do you have the case files for those women as well?" she asked, as soon as he'd finished speaking.

"I'll drop them off at your place later today," he said, still looking unhappy. "This information – this is stuff that can't get out to anyone. People haven't made the connection yet, between those disappearances and the bodies we found a few weeks ago. Once they start realizing that there might be a link, there's gonna be a panic."

"Maybe there should be," she said indignantly. "Maybe women should know their lives could be in danger here."

"That's not your decision to make," he said immediately, seeming to sense that he'd lost control of the conversation. "Believe me, everyone working this case has looked this over from every angle – this is the best way to approach it. It keeps the killers from going deeper into hiding, and it keeps women in Oregon and Washington from getting trigger happy every time some poor schmuck asks for a date. You know how much accidental shootings go up when the media gets hold of something like this?"

She didn't like his tone. "Yes, Agent Washington, I do. You haven't recruited some civilian with no idea what's out there – I assure you, I've worked in the trenches for several years now."

Burly had woken and was watching the escalating conversation with some concern. Washington reached down and absently petted the dog's head, smiling ruefully. He lowered his voice, returning to the casual tone that had started the conversation.

"I know that, Dr. Brennan – it's the reason I chose you. I just get a little overprotective about this case. I've been working on it a long time; that break we got with the bodies is the first one we'd had in a long time. I don't want the trail to go cold again."

He nodded toward the spring rolls. "Now, why don't you try a spring roll." He lowered his voice, grinning sideways at her – he did have an endearing smile, she had to admit. "And stop yelling at me, you're giving my dog flashbacks to my ex-wife."

The remainder of the conversation was more civilized, as Brennan got the last details of the case and Washington gave her instructions on how to proceed. Just before she left, he produced a compact, surprisingly heavy box wrapped in polka dotted gift wrap. She looked at him in surprise.

"I wasn't aware we were exchanging gifts," she said dryly.

"You can open it when you get home. It's actually from your partner – he took care of the paperwork from D.C. He said you'd be safe with it."

She had a feeling she knew exactly what it was, but managed to contain her smile. She and Washington embraced once more, and then Brennan hurried back home to unwrap her gift. Sure enough, housed inside a sturdy wooden case was a compact Firestorm .22. She'd fired one before at the shooting range – Booth had actually been with her at the time, and had commented then on how well the pistol suited her. She liked both its accuracy and comfort, not to mention how discreetly it could be concealed in her purse.

As per Booth's instructions, Washington had included the necessary paperwork, which meant that now Brennan was legally able to carry the weapon with her for the remainder of the case. She breathed an internal sigh of relief, familiarizing herself with the gun and ensuring that the dual safety mechanisms were in good working order.

Afterward, she spent a couple of hours reading through manuscripts for some of the students whose work she'd be critiquing over the next several days. It seemed largely pointless to her – she wasn't a writer, she was a forensic anthropologist. The student samples were between ten and eighteen pages long, all of them mysteries of some kind. All of the plots struck her as singularly outlandish, and while there were certainly a couple of students who knew the craft, the rest seemed awkward and utterly amateurish.

Not that she was really qualified to give an opinion, she reminded herself. When she'd agreed to take on this assignment, she'd honestly never imagined it would require this much work – however, once the university learned that Dr. Temperance Brennan had agreed to instruct for the entire month, they'd taken full advantage. Not only would she be leading workshops with another instructor each day in which the students' manuscripts would be critiqued, but she was also obligated to come up with a topic for her own seminar, do a public reading, and sit in on two panels. Looking over the conference schedule, it appeared that there was some kind of event nearly every night that she was expected to attend. She couldn't imagine finding the time to continue consulting for the Jeffersonian and still try to solve the Lady Killer case. Which, despite Washington's insistence that he had everything under control, she had every intention of continuing.

Finally, at around six that evening, she put the manuscripts away and began preparing for the faculty party. She considered calling Angela for a consult, but then thought she was probably spending the evening with Hodgins, after a long day of baseball with their friends. The thought made her that much lonelier - which irritated her to no end. She went into the bathroom and stared at the mirror, setting her jaw determinedly.

"All right, Brennan – suck it up," she said, using a phrase she'd heard Booth say a thousand times before. "You have work to do, on an exciting case in a beautiful city. Booth will be here in two weeks." She glared at her reflection. "No more moping – get to work."

Strangely enough, the stern talking-to was effective. Thinking about it, it seemed silly to even consider bothering Angela – Brennan had attended dozens of these types of functions over the years. And though she was always slightly uncomfortable at them – having never been particularly adept at the meaningless conversations and archaic posturing that abounded at such events, – as a student of anthropology, she understood the importance of these rituals in establishing a social hierarchy and paying homage to the most powerful members of that hierarchy. And, when she could detach from her own awkwardness, she did enjoy watching the way people engaged with one another at such functions.

After a great deal of thought, she finally decided on a black cocktail dress that was attractive without being overstated, the hemline falling just below her knees and the neckline appropriately modest. As she pulled the cool silk over her head, felt it whisper over her bare skin, she thought inexplicably of Booth: of his reaction to her dress the other night; the heady feeling she'd gotten dancing in his arms; the way his hands – and lips, and teeth, and tongue – lay claim to her for that brief period before he'd stopped himself in her apartment.

Despite her feminist leanings, Brennan had always had a predilection for what society referred to as 'men's men' – alpha males who dominated within the parameters of their chosen careers, and who invariably carried that confidence into the bedroom. Knowing Booth as she did, and now having gotten a glimpse of the way he handled himself behind closed doors, Brennan was quite certain he would distinguish himself among the partners she'd chosen in the past. A languid warmth filled her at the thought, but she quickly refocused her attention on the business at hand. She was getting ahead of herself – any number of things could happen in the next two weeks, and she didn't want to set herself up for disappointment should Booth change his mind.

She put her hair up hastily, selected earrings and heels, necklace and handbag, then hesitated at the front door when she realized she had yet to procure the tracking device Booth had made her promise to get. Reassured by the presence of the .22 in her purse, she armed the security system Washington had arranged and made a hasty exit.

The house where the faculty party was being held was just a few blocks from her own – a massive, old Victorian estate with a wraparound deck and an expansive, beautifully landscaped yard. The house itself was painted in a spectrum of blues and greens, with elegant turrets that made the entire estate look as though it had been pulled from the pages of a fairy tale Russ might read to her nieces.

Brennan took a breath before she began the journey up the long walkway, observing the dozen or so smokers talking animatedly on the deck and front steps. As she approached, she realized that several individuals had stopped their conversations, and were now watching her progress.

She hesitated, glancing down to make sure she hadn't inadvertently put her dress on backward or worn mis-matched heels (both of which had happened before, though she'd been in college at the time). While she was still taking stock of herself, a smallish, fit man who looked to be in his mid-twenties set aside his drink and came down the steps to greet her.

"Dr. Brennan?"

She nodded. "Yes, that's right. This is the faculty party for the writing conference, isn't it?"

"That's right." He held out his hand – she responded in kind, noting that his grip was surprisingly strong for his size. Physically, he reminded her of Hodgins – likely no more than five foot seven, though he was thinner than Jack and probably not in quite as good condition. Blonde, with a goatee and glasses.

"I'm Caleb Murray – we've been expecting you. I'll be your teaching assistant over the next few weeks. It's a real honor to meet you."

Before she could fully respond to Caleb's comments, another man came striding purposefully toward her, wearing what reminded her of a vastly inferior rendering of Booth's charm smile. He was likely in his forties, a long-time smoker judging by the lines in his face and the pallor of his skin. He was soft at the middle, at least twenty pounds overweight, and favored his left leg as he walked toward her.

"Temperance," he said, getting between her and Caleb. The stranger attempted to put his arm around Brennan's shoulders before she caught him by the hand, twisting his arm behind his back until he yelped.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asked, maintaining her grip on his wrist.

He struggled slightly, but stopped when she lifted his wrist up toward his scapula.

"Jason Farnham – we're teaching together. We met in Algeria a few years ago."

She released him, stepping away so she could get a better look at his face. After several seconds, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't remember you."

"You were recovering bodies after that flood."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, yes. I remember Algeria – I just don't remember you. We were working a great deal, though, and I have a habit of focusing more on my work than the people around me. Particularly in those types of situations."

He nodded. "Of course, I understand."

He took a step closer, prompting her to assume a modified fighting stance once more. It wasn't as though she had her hands up prepared to defend herself – but she kept her feet shoulder width apart and her arms ready at her sides, uncomfortable with the man's proximity. Farnham seemed oblivious, but Caleb apparently realized the danger the man was in – he stepped between the two of them. A group of onlookers had gathered in the interim, apparently expecting some type of physical confrontation.

"Professor Farnham has been teaching in the MFA program at U of O for almost ten years now. He's kind of a local celebrity."

"Then why were you in Algeria recovering bodies from a relatively insignificant weather event five years ago?" she asked point-blank, honestly puzzled.

"I specialize in disaster recovery," the man said without hesitation. "My mysteries are always set in the middle of some kind of natural disaster – in order to be as accurate as possible, I try to put myself in those types of situations as often as possible. Just last week I was in Mozambique helping with earthquake relief."

"They weren't allowing Americans into Mozambique last week," Brennan said immediately, her eyes narrowed skeptically. "Several of my colleagues from the Jeffersonian were scheduled to go there for an archaeological dig, but after the earthquake the government revoked their visas." Caleb was beginning to look uncomfortable, though Farnham didn't look thrown in the least.

"I know some powerful people," he said. "President Guebuza is a close personal friend."

His manner appeared casual, with no obvious physical stressors to indicate he was lying. Still, the story struck her as singularly outlandish – she'd been instrumental in identifying victims after the 2006 earthquake in Mozambique, and had become acquainted with President Guebuza at that time. She'd spoken to him personally after this most recent, comparatively small quake, and had been assured that no one would be allowed into the country until the situation was more stable.

"Well, when you speak to them next, perhaps you can give my best to Mrs. Guebuza – I know she hasn't been feeling well the last several months," she said.

"She was better when I saw her – she and Armando were both in good spirits when I arrived." He maintained direct eye contact, still making no move to get out of her personal space.

Brennan's eyes widened at the obvious deception. Before she could respond, however, Caleb somewhat gingerly took her by the elbow and pointed beyond the crowd, toward the house.

"Here – why don't we go inside? Everyone's been looking forward to meeting you."

Once she'd walked a few feet from Farnham, she turned to her guide with genuine consternation. "That man is lying! No one calls President Guebuza Armando – and Mrs. Guebuza was out of the country for the last month."

Caleb nodded smoothly. "Yeah, he does that – I'm sorry, I was hoping I could get to you before he did. Next week, you'll be teaching with David Lethem – who's great, you've probably heard of him," he said, though Brennan shook her head blankly. The young man looked slightly taken aback by her response, but continued nevertheless.

"Unfortunately, once Farnham found out you were teaching this week, he called in pretty much every favor known to man to get a chance to work with you. So… He's your partner this week."

"So, he doesn't really know me? He wasn't actually in Algeria helping recover bodies?"

They passed a cluster of men and women chatting amiably on the stone steps leading up to the house, almost all of them smoking. Brennan wrinkled her nose distastefully at the smell, but was too concerned with the issue of Jason Farnham to comment.

"Probably not," Caleb said. He didn't seem at all concerned that she would be working alongside a pathological liar for the next week.

"Well, he must be a very talented writer to be excused for this type of behavior."

Caleb ushered her into a large foyer with high ceilings and a beautifully detailed staircase at the far side of the room. He smiled dryly at her comment.

"Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you?"

Before she could pursue the conversation further, however, he led her through French doors and a series of smaller rooms and a labyrinth of narrow corridors. She followed him down a short flight of stairs and through a wider hallway decorated with ornate mirrors and tapestries, at the end of which were massive wooden double doors propped open to reveal a stunning, classical ballroom. At the center was a massive crystal chandelier, hanging above an intricately patterned wooden floor.

"So, this is the ballroom," Caleb said casually, as though he'd just shown her into someone's garage. "This is where most of the parties over the next couple of weeks will be, and they also hold most of the readings and seminars here during the conference. The Llewellyns flew architects in from Italy and Japan to consult when they were renovating, to make sure they got the acoustics and everything right."

She took in the fine details, the full bar at the back of the room and the five-piece jazz ensemble playing to the left of the entrance.

"Who are the Llewellyns?" she asked, and felt slightly childish when she realized that she had whispered the question.

Caleb looked at her in surprise. "Wanda and Michael Llewellyn?" he asked.

She shook her head blankly.

"Wow," he grinned. "You really are the real deal." When he realized that she had no idea what he was talking about, he hurried to explain. "I just mean, it's not too often that you meet someone who knows the president of Mozambique but doesn't have a clue who David Lethem is. Or the Llewellyns."

"I work a great deal," she told him, by way of explanation. "I'm assuming Mr. Lethem is a novelist, and the Llewellyns are…?"

"Philanthropists," he supplied. "They host the conference with U of O every year – the university provides housing, but the Llewellyns foot the bill for pretty much everything else. Catering, parties, booze – a hundred and fifty writers in one place for two weeks requires a lot of liquor."

She made no comment, still taking in her surroundings. After a moment or two of silence, he nodded toward a group consisting of three older, well-dressed women and a tall, thin man standing in front of a stained glass window at the far end of the room.

"It doesn't look like the Chancellor's here yet, but Dr. Taylor's been waiting to meet you. And Senator Woolrich has been looking forward to your arrival all weekend."

At his words, Brennan couldn't hide her distaste. "Senator Melissa Woolrich? I thought this was a writing conference – why is she here?"

He looked vaguely amused at her reaction, though Brennan had no idea why. She'd met Senator Woolrich twice before, and neither time had ended well – the woman was adamantly against stem cell research, and singularly uninformed about the topic. Not surprisingly, this was an issue Brennan had always felt strongly about.

"She wrote a book that just came out," Caleb told her. "You know, kind of a woman-in-politics, inside look kind of deal. Since she's a pretty big donor at U of O, I think the Llewellyns kind of had to invite her to the conference."

Brennan nodded. Working at the Jeffersonian, she'd certainly seen the same type of political maneuvering. Just because she was familiar with it, however, didn't mean she had to enjoy it.

Before they could approach the group Caleb had indicated, the male member of the party disengaged from the others and hurriedly made his way to Brennan. She couldn't help but think he looked distinctly relieved to be free of the women with whom he'd been speaking. In his early to mid fifties, Dr. Taylor was a thin, innocuous-looking man – possibly six feet tall and likely at least ten pounds underweight. Brennan had spoken with him on the phone several days before while making arrangements for the conference, and had enjoyed their conversation immensely.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm so pleased you could make it. Are you settling in all right?"

She nodded, flashing him the gracious smile she'd by now perfected, after years of book signings and Jeffersonian fundraisers.

"I am, thank you."

"Campus housing, or did you manage to escape that?"

She laughed politely. "I'm actually renting a house not far from here – a colleague arranged it for me."

After a few moments, Brennan realized that she seemed to be the central focus for several of the individuals in the room – many of whom seemed to be listening to her conversation with Dr. Taylor. Caleb appeared to be watching all of this with some concern – she'd seen the same protective look on Booth's face countless times before, but she wasn't certain how appropriate it was considering she'd known Caleb for less than half an hour.

Before she could consider the thought any further, she saw Senator Woolrich approaching. She turned to Caleb with a grimace.

"Could you do me a favor?" she asked.

He nodded without hesitation. "Of course – anything."

"Just – if it seems as though I'm about to say something inappropriate, would you just…" She shook her head. "Never mind. It's fine."

Caleb grinned reassuringly, seeming at ease for the first time since they'd met. She was reminded once more of Hodgins. "Don't worry, I've got your back."

Melissa Woolrich was an attractive woman in her sixties – though Brennan knew that the woman had been insisting she was not yet fifty for nearly a decade. Slim and perfectly coiffed, she wore a tailored maroon suit, her blonde hair piled high on her overly made-up face.

"Hello, Senator Woolrich," Brennan greeted her, certain that her smile did not appear at all genuine.

The Senator ignored Brennan's outstretched hand, moving in for a hug instead.

"Please, dear – whatever our political differences might be, they have no bearing on the world of words. As long as we're here, we're family."

Brennan thought she showed admirable restraint by not leveling the despicable woman then and there. Instead, she disentangled herself and took a step back, noting that Caleb appeared to be watching the proceedings with some distaste himself. It was clear why a moment later, when the Senator turned her attention to the man, pulling him into an even more awkward embrace than the one she'd just subjected Brennan to.

"And I see you've met my handsome son," she said, keeping one arm around Caleb's shoulders after he'd pulled out of the embrace. Caleb didn't attempt to get away, necessarily, however he showed clear stress markers - his upper body tensed and his jaw clenched, visibly increased pressure in the superficial temporal vein.

Brennan searched her memory, trying to recall whether she'd said anything explicit regarding the Senator, now that she knew Caleb was her son. Had she actually used the phrase Puritanical shrew, or merely thought it?

"I just know Caleb will take excellent care of you this week. I'm hoping that once he sees the way a _real _writer works, he'll develop some initiative," the woman continued, oblivious to the effect she was having on her son. "Caleb's brother is a surgeon, you know. He's always been an overachiever, finished first in his class at Stanford – I'm sure you know the type. I think sometimes Caleb has gone the opposite direction just to distinguish himself."

An attractive blonde woman likely Brennan's approximate age had apparently overheard the Senator's comments, and interrupted the conversation. She appeared quite annoyed, which Brennan could certainly understand. Brennan didn't even know Caleb, and _she _was annoyed. Of course, that could merely be because she found Senator Woolrich to be a pretentious boor.

"Caleb's actually one of the most gifted students in the graduate program, and has been incredibly helpful organizing the conference this year," the woman said, maintaining steadfast eye contact with the Senator. "He may not be completely conventional in his approach, but I expect we'll see great things from Mr. Murray in the years to come."

Strangely enough, Caleb appeared much more uncomfortable with the woman's compliments than his mother's disparaging words. The woman seemed to recognize his discomfort – she changed the subject abruptly by holding out her hand and addressing Brennan directly.

"You must be Dr. Brennan – I've heard so much about you, it's nice to put a face to the name. I'm Jamie Crankshaw."

"Jamie teaches short story writing and experimental fiction – both at the conference and the MFA program at U of O," Caleb told her.

Brennan accepted her hand, immediately recognizing the name. "And when the van flew south all the kiddies therein, raised up their flasks and sang a toast to the wind," she quoted, smiling at the words.

The Senator looked as though she'd just started spouting scripture (actually, she probably would have been much more comfortable if she had, Brennan realized), but Caleb grinned widely.

"You know Jamie's work?" he asked.

Brennan nodded. "My best friend is a great admirer – she gave me a book of yours for my birthday two years ago. I don't often have time for fiction, but I enjoyed it a great deal."

The woman looked quite surprised. "Thank you – that's really very kind. It's not often a bestselling mystery writer can quote my lines back to me."

"Ms. Crankshaw has had a tremendous influence on Caleb's work," the Senator interrupted. "If you liked her fiction, you might enjoy some of Caleb's stories – and perhaps give him some pointers on how to shift direction just a bit, to appeal to a more mainstream audience."

Brennan was beginning to wish she'd saved the move she'd used on Jason Farnham, for the Senator instead. She was just about to give the horrible woman a piece of her mind when Caleb intervened, stating that the Llewellyns were on the other side of the room and she should take the time to meet them. Brennan agreed, knowing that a confrontation with the Senator would be completely counterproductive at this point.

Instead, she accepted a glass of wine Dr. Taylor brought for her, took Caleb's arm, and from that point on found herself being ushered from one group of strangers to the next. Names and faces blurred in short order, and she was certain that Booth would be disappointed in her observational abilities when they spoke that evening. The only thing that made the night remotely bearable was talking to Caleb, who was well-spoken and pleasantly glib throughout the entire event.

By the time nine o'clock came, all conversation had ceased, the dance floor had been cleared, and a five-piece jazz band played in the corner of the room. Brennan managed to keep Jason Farnham and a number of other men who seemed intent on dancing with her, at bay. Farnham was making a beeline for her yet again when she glanced at her watch and realized it was time for her nightly check-in with Booth. Thank god – an excuse to go home.

"I really should be going – I'm still on Eastern time, and I have some things I need to do before I get to bed tonight," she told Caleb.

He hesitated uncomfortably. "Yeah, I understand – it's just that they haven't actually done the faculty introductions yet. They're kind of a big deal, but they don't take long… They should start soon."

She nodded, though the last thing she wanted to do was stay to meet still more strangers whose names she was quite certain she would never remember. "Of course," she said. "I just need to make a phone call – I'll be back in a few minutes."

It was a beautiful night out – Brennan had been hoping to have Booth's voice to keep her company on the walk home, but that was clearly now out of the question. Instead, she took her purse and cell phone and retreated to the porch.

Booth had been sleeping when she called, which made her feel badly for waking him. His voice was low, rough as gravel, when he answered.

"Hey Bones," he said, and she couldn't recall precisely when hearing her partner's voice had become enough to turn her mood around. "What've you got for me?"

Though the crowd on the porch had dispersed to the lawn, there were still several people nearby. One was a friend of Caleb's she'd been introduced to earlier – TJ, she thought his name was – who was attempting to seduce a girl who, Brennan was fairly certain, wasn't yet legal to drink the beer she was holding.

Jason Farnham and another instructor she'd been introduced to earlier stumbled onto the porch a moment later. They each held a cigarette in one hand and a tumbler of an indistinguishable alcoholic beverage in the other, and they each spoke loudly in order to be heard over the other. As soon as Farnham saw her, however, he fell silent. He stared at her intently, leaving Brennan distinctly uncomfortable.

"Paladin," she said before Booth got mad at her for forgetting again, then added "I don't really have time to talk," more loudly than she'd intended. Farnham continued watching her until she turned her back on him, lowering her voice.

"I'm sorry – it's just somewhat chaotic here."

"You still at the party?" he asked.

She sighed, wishing she'd sought a more private place. "I am. I don't suspect I'll get home until much later – can we talk tomorrow?"

He huffed a little, which she took to mean he was irritated that she wouldn't be able to give him the latest details on the case.

"I'll send you an e-mail with everything I've learned when I get home tonight, if you really think it can't wait until we speak in the morning," she said brusquely.

"No, forget it – we'll just talk tomorrow. It's not really that, anyway. I was just, y'know…" he paused. She waited for him to complete his thought, uncertain of his direction. "I was just looking forward to talking to you, that's all. You know, hearin' that sexy Bones voice, telling you about my day. That kinda thing."

She blinked. Thought, for a moment. "Oh," she said stupidly. She realized that she was smiling, which seemed an idiotic thing to do. Her head felt lighter, her shoulders less weighted, and two thousand miles somehow became much closer and a thousand times less tolerable. "Could we do that tomorrow?" she asked, hoping it wasn't the wrong thing to say.

He laughed slightly, though she thought he sounded sad. "Yeah, Bones. We can do that tomorrow. Stay safe."

She nodded. "You too. Talk to you tomorrow," and she hung up.

Caleb had been lying – or at least delusional – when he'd said faculty introductions didn't take long. There were twenty writers on staff, including those specializing in poetry and short, literary, and popular fiction. Each was required to introduce themselves with a brief professional and personal bio that seemed to stretch on for hours. By the time they were finished, it was nearly midnight and Brennan could barely keep her eyes open.

Caleb apologized profusely throughout most of the proceedings, offering to drive her home at the end of the night. She considered the offer for a moment before she thought of Rachel Martin and Michelle Lowell and all of the other women who'd lost their lives at the hands of the Lady Killer. Regardless of how harmless Caleb seemed, she knew it was a bad idea to not only get into a car with a stranger, but then to lead that stranger directly to her home.

Luckily, Jamie was leaving at the same time. She seemed to sense Brennan's discomfort at Caleb's offer, and nodded toward the parking lot.

"You head on home, Caleb – you've got an early morning tomorrow, right? Dr. Brennan here should get a spin in the Buzzard, anyway."

Brennan had no idea to what the woman was referring with the buzzard comment, however she smiled gratefully regardless. If riding home with a stranger who may or may not have been a psychopathic serial killer was bad, walking the streets at night alone wasn't a particularly appetizing alternative.

"If you're sure you wouldn't mind, I'd be very appreciative. I'm only a few blocks over."

Jamie waved this information off as inconsequential, already putting on her jacket and saying a quick goodbye to the rest of the partygoers. Brennan followed the woman down the front steps and across the parking lot, noting her athletic stride as she led the way to a sleek, vintage blue convertible. Brennan had never had that much interest in cars, but even she knew enough to recognize the value of such a vehicle.

"It's a very nice car," she commented, as Jamie unlocked the passenger's side door for her.

"She is, isn't she? '58 BMW 507… Well, most of her, anyway. She was kind of a mess when I got her – scavenged the parts and rebuilt her myself."

Brennan was suitably impressed. "Hence the name, I suppose – Buzzard? So, you're a mechanic in addition to being a writer?"

Jamie came around to the driver's side before answering. Both women were tall, which made the limited leg room something of a challenge. Nevertheless, Jamie seemed completely at ease in the vehicle – she started the engine, popped the clutch, and didn't respond until they were on the road.

"Well, you're a forensic anthropologist and a writer, right? Being a mechanic and a writer doesn't seem all that impressive in comparison."

"I'm not really a writer," Brennan assured her. "The first book just kind of… happened, and then it was successful. So, it seemed to make sense to try a second one."

Jamie nodded. "I guess I could see that. Well, I'm not really a mechanic – my father was, though. I'm the youngest of three girls… I think by the time I came along, my dad just decided, 'Screw it, this'll be the son I'm obviously not gonna have.' While my sisters were playing Barbies, I was in the garage rebuilding transmissions with him."

"Doesn't sound like a bad way to grow up," Brennan noted, thinking unexpectedly of the experiments she used to do as a child with her own father.

Jamie looked at her briefly before returning her eyes to the road, a distant smile on her face. "No, not bad at all. Pretty good, as a matter of fact."

The engine was surprisingly quiet for such an old car. Jamie drove about ten miles over the speed limit the entire way, which was really nothing considering the way Booth drove more often than not. Brennan watched the neighborhoods pass by as they navigated one-way street after one-way street before finally arriving on Glisan.

"I'm at the top of the hill," Brennan instructed.

"Nice neighborhood," the other woman commented. "Not usually the kind of digs we set up for faculty."

"I set it up myself, actually," she said quickly. "I have a colleague from the Jeffersonian in the area – he arranged it. I didn't really want to stay on campus."

Jamie nodded, pulling into the driveway that Brennan indicated. She stopped just short of the Prius Brennan had rented but as yet had only driven from the airport, put the car in neutral, and let it idle.

"I don't blame you there. But be careful – I know everything around here seems pretty harmless, but you'd be surprised. You shouldn't be walking around alone at night."

Brennan paused before getting out, caught by something in the woman's tone. "I wouldn't think crime would be that much of an issue in this area."

The woman shrugged, something unreadable in her eyes. If Booth were here, Brennan thought, he would know how to proceed. "Like I said, you'd be surprised. Just use common sense, you'll be fine."

Brennan opened the door, still not certain what to say. Jamie appeared to notice her discomfort, because she laughed suddenly, rolling her eyes.

"Now you look freaked out – don't worry, I'm just a little paranoid. A friend of mine disappeared from a place a few blocks from here not long ago… I've been on edge ever since. But I'm sure that was a freak thing."

"The police didn't find her?" Brennan asked, her mind immediately going to the case at hand.

"Not yet, no. Everybody seems to think she skipped town."

Brennan raised an eyebrow in question. "But you don't think so?"

She shrugged. "Let's just put it this way – her dog's been camped out on my couch for the past three months, waiting for her to come back. Maddie wasn't the type who'd just take off without her dog… She's not really the type to take off at all. But especially not without Oliver."

A second or two passed while Brennan tried to determine where to go with this information. Jamie seemed to require nothing further, however – she nodded toward the street with a kind smile.

"I should probably go – Oliver's waiting for me. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Brennan nodded, shutting the car door. She noticed that Jamie waited until she was safely inside and the living room light was on before she drove away, leaving Brennan alone once more. Once inside, faced with the silence and another night on her own, she found herself sorely tempted to call Booth. She realized suddenly that, for the better part of the day, she'd been processing events in terms of how she would relay them to him. She couldn't wait to tell him about her conversation with Agent Washington, and give him her impressions of the faculty, Jason Farnham's strange behavior, the presence of Melissa Woolrich, Caleb Murray and Jamie Crankshaw and everyone else she'd met that evening.

It was almost three a.m. in D.C., however – regardless of how fond Booth might be of her at the moment, she was quite certain that fondness wouldn't carry over to pointless telephone conversations in the middle of the night, merely because she was lonely. Instead, she got a yogurt from the refrigerator and began critiquing more manuscripts for the morning session, promising herself that she would get to bed within the hour.

* * *

Predictably enough, her intention of getting to bed at a reasonable hour that night fell flat, and she found herself immersed in the new Lady Killer files Agent Washington had dropped off while she was at the party, until almost four a.m. Looking at herself in the mirror the next morning, she thought for a moment of being in Maine with Booth and the rest of the team – how good it had felt to live outside her head for a change, immersed instead in physical activity and the camaraderie she'd come to cherish among her peers at the Jeffersonian.

Now, she looked tired and stressed, felt her spirits flagging and loneliness wearing her down when solitude had never been a problem in the past. She pushed such thoughts out of her head with undeniable irritation – she was getting soft, and she would simply not tolerate that. There was a reason she was here; feeling sorry for herself because she was slightly overtired was unforgivable.

A moment later, having sufficiently chastised herself for her moment of weakness, she poured a fresh cup of coffee, put her hair in a ponytail, chose a professional looking skirt and blouse, and began her day.

She arrived at eight o'clock Monday morning to find the Llewellyn estate surprisingly still. A few people lingered in the foyer over coffee and pastries, and three staff members manned an information table just outside the entrance, but otherwise there was little to indicate that one hundred and fifty students would be roaming the corridors in an hours' time.

Brennan took a map of the house from the information desk, looked up her assigned workshop space, and began navigating the labyrinth of stairwells and narrow corridors to the bowels of the house. At the back of the house on the second floor, overlooking breathtaking gardens and a shimmering pool, she finally found the parlor to which she and Jason Farnham had been relegated for the next week.

Caleb was already there, setting name tags before each seat and generally preparing the space. He smiled when she came in, maintaining the reserved manner he'd adopted the previous evening.

"Morning, Dr. Brennan. You're early – most faculty don't get here until about five minutes after the workshop starts."

The room was spacious and well-ventilated, with tapestries on the walls and windows that stood open to allow a pleasant breeze to circulate. Brennan had seen some of the tiny annexes where other workshops were being held, and surmised that her professional standing had afforded them one of the nicest rooms in the old mansion. A long, antique dining table dominated the space, with a dozen matching chairs set up around it. At the center of the table were a basket of peppermint candies and a box of pastries.

"I wanted to have some time to prepare," she said, distracted by the way Caleb was arranging the name tags. After a moment's hesitation, she decided that it would be best to be as frank with Caleb as she would any of her students at the Jeffersonian.

"It makes more sense for Dr. Farnham and me to be closer together," she said, noting that he had set them on opposite ends of the table.

Caleb hesitated – he looked the way Zack used to, she thought, when she'd gotten something wrong and he was hesitant to correct her.

"What?" she prompted. It had taken some real effort before she'd convinced Zack to stand behind his intellect, not his allegiance to a perceived authority figure or the fear of wounding her ego. "You don't believe that's a wise choice?"

Another moment of hesitation. "It's actually _Professor_ Farnham, not Doctor. And Jason can be… well, let's just say he's not great with personal space."

"That was quite apparent last evening," she said, still uncertain of his point.

"I mean, I saw the way you handled him last night – so I'm sure you can take care of yourself. But he also tends to be…"

The friend Caleb had introduced her to the night before – the one intent on seducing the underage coed – appeared at the door. He picked up where Caleb left off, as though he'd been at the center of the conversation from the start.

"An idiot," TJ said, immediately heading for the donuts on the table. "Wow… Nice digs. Jamie's teaching in the annex this week – she'll be lucky if someone doesn't fall out a window trying to keep cool up there."

TJ was several inches taller than Caleb, standing approximately six feet tall. With a muscular build and traditionally Nordic features, he was more conventionally attractive – and certainly more assured – than her assistant, but the two complimented each other well. Caleb had told her somewhat awkwardly the night before that they were in a band together, which surprised Brennan.

"I was going to say," Caleb continued, shooting a withering glance at TJ, "that he tends to be unprepared. So, he'll be trying to go through your notes while we're in the middle of a session."

"Then why is he still teaching?" she demanded.

"Tenure," the two said simultaneously.

"And he has been published a lot," Caleb added.

"Yeah, by that crappy small press his uncle owns," TJ said immediately. It sounded as though they'd had this argument before, but frankly Brennan didn't think it was relevant to any of the reasons she was here. Jason Farnham seemed eccentric, certainly, but she couldn't imagine that he was anything more sinister than that. Seeing no point to the conversation, she chose to return to the matter at hand.

"All right, I'll defer to your expertise in this particular instance," she conceded. "I'll sit here, Professor Farnham can sit across the room." She hesitated, not sure whether she should say what else she'd noticed about the seating.

"I see that you've managed to seat yourself at my right hand and TJ at my left."

TJ grinned at this, his mouth partially full of donut when he responded. "I slipped him a twenty. Think of us as your sentries – nobody gets to you without coming through us first."

She raised an eyebrow at this, amused despite herself. "I wasn't aware writing workshops were such a dangerous business."

Caleb responded to this, with surprising gravity. "Trust me, Dr. Brennan, you have no idea."

* * *

True to Caleb's prediction, Farnham arrived three minutes after class was set to start. He wore khaki Dockers and an oversized pink t-shirt with the words "I AM WRITER, HEAR ME ROAR" written in bold letters across his soft chest. A safari hat topped his gray curls, the outfit completed with bright white sneakers and sunglasses. His briefcase was overflowing with papers, but he entered the room with an assured air that Brennan found undeniably irritating. By the time he made his entrance, all of the students had already arrived – three women and seven men, all with their manuscripts ready and an expectant air about them.

Brennan thought she noted a flicker of annoyance when Farnham saw the seating arrangement, but a moment later it had passed.

"Could I speak to you outside, Temperance?" he asked smoothly, placing his hand at the small of her back – the very spot usually reserved for Booth.

She made no attempt to conceal her displeasure at his proximity. Stepping away, she offered an apologetic smile to their students.

"Would you excuse us for a moment?"

Outside the room, Farnham wasted no time.

"Now, I know you're new to the workshop experience, so I just wanted to give you a few pointers," he told her with a maddeningly superior air.

She crossed her arms over her chest, head tilted to the side and her eyebrows raised. She couldn't help but think just how much Booth hated it when she took the posture.

"You don't think it would have been more appropriate to discuss this last night?" she asked. "Or even an hour ago?"

He didn't look dissuaded in the least, by either her question or her tone. "No time like the present," he said cheerily. "Now, I like to begin with the strongest manuscripts – "

Brennan felt her irritation mount. "According to the instructions I received from Dr. Taylor, we're meant to go through the students in alphabetical order."

Farnham waved this off as though she'd suggested something absurd. "That's only for people lacking imagination or creative expertise. Now, we start with the strongest, kind of get things off on the right foot – you know, scare the crap writers a little by showing them – "

She fought to control her temper, though it was proving difficult. "I'd prefer to follow the directions I was given," she said firmly. "Those are the manuscripts I prepared for today, and those are the students expecting a critique."

Was that a flicker of anger she saw? Just a ripple of temper crossed the man's placid gray eyes, before it vanished.

"I've been teaching workshops for ten – "

"And had you come to me with this last night, rather than five minutes _after _the workshops were set to begin, I might have been more receptive," she retorted, immovable.

She waited through a moment of silence, during which Farnham appeared to be debating how to pursue the matter. Finally, he smiled – a cold smile that demonstrated quite ably that this was not the harmless eccentric Brennan had originally suspected. She felt something strange – a crawl of fear at her spine that set her off balance. She betrayed none of this, however, and nodded toward the closed door with a quirked eyebrow.

"Can we begin?" she asked.

He nodded, just as cold as she. "Of course, Temperance. After you."

They began with manuscripts by Bill Allan and Andy Bingham. Bill was in his sixties, with glasses and a kind smile. His spelling was atrocious, as were most of the plot devices he'd concocted in the fifteen pages Brennan had read. Andy's story appeared to revolve around prostitutes, however based on the graphic nature of his writing – and the sheer physical impossibility of the sex acts he described – Brennan was fairly confident stating that he had not only never been with a prostitute, he'd never actually seen a woman naked before.

She attempted to follow the critiquing model she'd been given by Dr. Taylor: say something positive, offer a constructive criticism, and finish with one more positive statement. This seemed patently counterintuitive, however – she couldn't imagine her own students at the Jeffersonian learning anything of worth when treated with such delicacy.

Farnham insisted on beginning the critique. Brennan listened as the man raved about Bill's ability to capture characters and convey emotions; after several minutes of praise, Brennan could take no more. She interrupted Farnham mid-sentence, her forehead furrowed in confusion.

"You can't possibly believe that," she said, noting the way all eyes turned to her. "If you honestly believe these characters show any emotional depth or believability whatsoever, then you can't possibly have any knowledge of the most rudimentary writing concepts. The dialogue is stilted, I have no idea what any of these characters look like or how old they are or what they're thinking, and the scene in which the protagonist diffuses a bomb using a hairpin and his shoelaces is utterly absurd."

Farnham and the rest of the students looked at her, aghast. Brennan stopped short, sensing her error.

"This is meant to instruct students on how to produce publishable works of fiction," she said, aware that her tone had taken on a defensive edge.

Farnham cut her off. "I think what Dr. Brennan is trying to say, Bill, is that you have a strong start – "

"That isn't what I'm trying to say at all," she interrupted. "In fact, I'm saying precisely the opposite." She looked at Bill kindly, certain to make eye contact. "I'm sure you're a very nice man, and there are countless things you are probably very good at it. Weren't you a surgeon? Perhaps you could volunteer at the local hospital when you return home, I'm sure they'd be very pleased to have someone with your expertise there."

The room fell silent. Bill smiled at her, but it was the sort of tortured smile she'd seen people give after they'd been told a loved one had just died in some horrible way. Except that a loved one had not died, she reasoned – she'd merely informed this man that he should pursue a more realistic goal. Farnham took over, explaining various points of view Bill had used in his manuscript and demonstrating how he might improve if he attempted a different approach.

Brennan sat and listened in silence, mystified by what had just taken place. When the critique was finished, they took a break – Farnham pushed past her chair with a pointed glance of disapproval, but said nothing to her. The rest of the students filed outside to smoke or stretch their legs, leaving Brennan and Caleb alone. Three or four minutes passed in silence as she reviewed her notes, before she finally put them aside in frustration. Her assistant gave her a sympathetic smile, at which she rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.

"I don't understand this at all – it's worse than Outward Bound. Why would I tell someone who's terrible at writing that he should pursue it further? Invest more time and money in something that will clearly go nowhere?"

Caleb hesitated until Brennan raised her eyebrows, frustrated that he wasn't answering her.

"What?" she pressed.

"Bill Allan's a retired surgeon from Detroit," he began.

"I _know,_" she said immediately. "Which makes it all the more incomprehensible that he doesn't recognize the absurdity of diffusing a bomb with shoelaces. Clearly, he must have some intelligence."

Caleb smiled slightly. TJ rejoined them then, the smell of stale cigarette smoke following him inside.

"He doesn't need the money," TJ said, once again picking up as though he'd been there for the entire conversation. "Doesn't have kids to support or a job to neglect – what else is he gonna do?"

"He'll never be published, though," Brennan insisted. TJ took the last stale donut from the box on the table, tipping his chair backward as he returned to his seat.

"So?" he asked.

"But what's the point of writing something if you'll never be published? What's the point of coming to a conference like this, if your manuscript will never be remotely readable?"

TJ looked at Caleb. "No offense, Dr. Brennan, but you'd never get it. Some people don't write to get published – some people don't have to be perfect at everything they do."

She got the sense that this was some type of criticism, but she couldn't see how. "So I'm merely here to encourage mediocrity?"

Caleb shrugged reluctantly. "Well… Yeah. Pretty much."

"And party like it's 1999," TJ informed her.

At the perplexed look on her face, Caleb tried to explain. "See, you have your big workshops – places like Iowa Writers and Bread Loaf, where they're all about honing your craft and all that jazz. Then there are the conferences like San Diego and New York and Hawaii, where agents are trolling for the next big thing… Any of those places, you can pistol whip writers who end their sentences with a preposition – "

"Or diffuse bombs with shoelaces," TJ interjected.

Caleb nodded, barely pausing before he continued. "Right. But this is a kinder, gentler writing conference. It's mostly just retirees like Bill Allan and little old lady schoolteachers trying to finish that memoir they've been chipping away at for the past twenty years. And, since you're here, this time we've also got more than a few crazed mystery fans who get their kicks from sitting next to Dr. Temperance Brennan."

She looked at TJ at this, who shook his head quickly. "Hey, don't look at me – I'm a real writer. I just wanted to sit next to you 'cause you're hot, it's got nothing to do with you being famous."

Brennan rolled her eyes, choosing to ignore the comment. "You're saying some of these people aren't even attempting to be writers?" she asked. "That they just made this up at the last moment to earn a spot in this workshop?"

TJ grinned at this. "You read the manuscripts – what do you think? There's no submission process for the conference here – you pay your money and you wait in line, first come first serve."

"Before you signed on, we had five people in this workshop – and two were scholarships. Now, we've got double that and had to split next week into two three day sessions to keep up with the demand. We had people working overtime trying to weed through all the applications. And, they're charging an extra five-hundred bucks a head for the workshop with you and Lethem next week – trust me, the people paying that aren't exactly starving writers looking for a break."

She thought again of the Lady Killer – someone who would sign up at the last minute, just to be near her. Based on what they were saying, nearly everyone had signed up here at the last minute.

"Who were the five that were already registered?" she asked suddenly.

TJ raised his hand. "That'd be me. I'm scholarship, though – had to fight to keep a place once the bidding war started. Then Jess – the short girl with the dark hair, I'm pretty sure she was already signed up." He looked at Caleb, who was looking through the roster. "Who else?"

"Maggie – the older lady with the limp," Caleb said, referring to a woman Brennan had noticed favored her left side, likely due to recent hip arthoplasty.

"And Allie's the other one – the forty-something lady with the baseball hat," TJ said suddenly. "She came last summer, too."

"So it's primarily men who signed up after they learned I would be here," she surmised.

Caleb lowered his eyes, looking distinctly uncomfortable, however TJ just continued to grin. "Face it, Dr. Brennan, you're kind of a honey. You and Jamie could definitely have your pick around here. Present company included," he said, waggling his eyebrows the way Booth did sometimes. "Right, Cale?"

She wasn't certain how to take his forthrightness. In the past, she'd become accustomed to students showing a certain amount of respect and distance – of course, they were forensic anthropology students, ironically not the best when it came to human interaction. If Booth were here, she realized, he would most definitely dislike TJ's approach.

The issue was moot for the moment, however, as students began filing back in. Farnham returned after everyone else had already been seated, clearly relishing any opportunity to make an entrance. For the remainder of the afternoon, Brennan attempted to modify her approach to something more amenable to the workshop style TJ and Caleb had discussed. She still found herself incapable of lying to the student – in this case, Andy Bingham – but she did attempt to find more positive aspects on which to focus.

The rest of Monday and Tuesday were packed, between workshops and disagreements with Farnham and readings and parties and, at the end of it all, files whose contents spilled over into Brennan's dreams, until the faces of the dead women merged with those of her students and fellow faculty. When she did sleep, which was rare, Brennan found that Abby Martin's face was almost always in her subconscious – always alive, always laughing, as she'd been in the photo Brennan had of the girl and her mother.

On Tuesday night, Brennan dreamed that she was teaching alongside Jason Farnham, but when she got into the classroom all of their students were deceased. Caleb and TJ, Maggie and Alice and Bill and the rest, all mutilated in their seats. Abby Martin was naked on the table, her eyes open and staring. Farnham had a scalpel.

"I was a surgeon in the war," he told her. He began an imperfect Y incision beginning at the girl's right shoulder, at which point Abby Martin suddenly came to life. She screamed, a sound so authentic that it pulled Brennan from the depths of sleep in an instant.

Brennan woke with her heart racing and palms sweating profusely, the sheets damp with her perspiration. She lay there for several seconds, disoriented, listening for an actual scream in the silent house. None came. After a moment, she sat up in bed – still unable to get her breath. She thought of the anxiety attack she'd had on Hurricane Island; of the way Booth sat with her, how soothing she'd found his presence. She closed her eyes and focused on the memory, reminding herself to inhale through her nose, exhale through her mouth… A tear squeezed itself from beneath her eyelid as she slowly regained control.

By the time she'd pulled herself together, she realized that there was no way she could go back to sleep. She went downstairs with her laptop and worked on files for the Jeffersonian until four. Then, she typed up the student roster and included all of the names of people who'd signed up to attend her readings and seminars over the coming weeks. The names spanned three pages – Booth would be able to work with it, she was sure, but at the moment it seemed singularly overwhelming.

The sun was just rising when she finished, the early morning air chilly despite the sweatshirt she wore – the same one Booth had purchased for her in Maine. She hesitated a moment before she finally began typing, not certain what – if anything – she should write. After half a dozen stops and starts, she got a fresh cup of coffee and sat to re-read the words she'd finally committed to the screen.

_Booth. I woke tonight from a bad dream, and thought of you – which I seem to be doing a great deal of lately. The workshops are fine, the people are nice, I have work to keep me occupied and the case to worry over the rest of the time. But in between all of those things, I must admit that thoughts of you creep into my consciousness unbidden. It seems I hadn't realized just how much I look forward to seeing your face every morning – how your grin lightens days that would otherwise seem considerably darker, how your hand at the small of my back makes my mind sharper and less focused all at once (though logically I realize this seems contradictory). I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to seeing you next weekend. I miss you. _

_Yours,_

_Bones_

She reread the paragraph again, rolling her eyes. He'd laugh at her – or else flee in terror. It was pathetic. She stood and paced the house, feeling jittery from the coffee and lack of sleep and the message she had just written. Finally, after considerable debate, she returned to her laptop and erased the entire thing. He needed the roster, not some overwrought declaration of her devotion, she told herself. Just before she hit send, she leaned over the keyboard and hurriedly typed out _I miss you_, then sent it out before she could change her mind. Even that small admission sped her heart and left her anxiously wondering whether she'd revealed too much.

* * *

Wednesday's workshop was worse than any of the others, primarily because Brennan was exhausted and had lost patience with Farnham's endless, nonsensical diatribes. In the middle of an absurd story about how he'd trained as a firefighter and been one of the first on the scene after the events of September 11th in New York, Brennan could no longer hold her tongue.

"Professor Farnham, perhaps we could take a break," she said, glaring at him.

"Just as soon as I finish my story, Dr. Brennan," he said, and it seemed to her in that moment that he was actually goading her.

She stood. "I need a break." The students looked from her to Farnham expectantly, a palpable tension in the room. "You may join me if you like."

And she got up to leave the room. Caleb and TJ sat watching her, slightly slack-jawed, before TJ stood and followed her out. The rest of the students weren't far behind; within three minutes, Farnham had found her out behind a massive oak tree at the back of the house.

"What the hell was that about?" he demanded.

"What the hell was that story about?" she returned without hesitation. "It doesn't even make sense. You just got done telling us yesterday that you spent all of 2001 in Rwanda, which also doesn't make sense, because you've been teaching here for ten years. Which absurd story are we meant to believe? Are you a pathological liar, or merely insane? If you're going to lie, you could at least pay some attention to the details so that you aren't constantly negating your own claims."

He took a step toward her, clearly furious. Brennan had chosen a more secluded area on the property so that she might have some distance from the cloud of cigarette smoke that seemed to hang over the Llewellyn Estate like smog. Now, she was regretting that decision. She felt her pulse accelerate, instantly assuming a fighting stance.

"What, you're gonna fight me now?" he asked in disbelief.

"I'd prefer not to – I don't want to hurt you," she said, though at the moment that was exactly what she wanted.

He shrugged, standing his ground. He didn't look away; neither did she.

"I would appreciate it if you would take a step back," she said.

A moment passed, in which neither of them moved. In her periphery, she spotted a group of students headed toward them. Good. There was no question in her mind that she could defeat him should it come to a physical altercation, but she was certainly hoping to avoid that.

A full two seconds had passed with neither of them making a move, before Farnham's eyes finally wavered.

"I'm gonna grab a smoke before we go back," he said, his anger still palpable. "I'll see you inside."

She nodded, watching as he walked away. She had an inexplicable desire to hit something – preferably Jason Farnham, though it seemed she'd lost that opportunity for the moment. She was still fuming when the phone rang – she checked her LCD and answered immediately, unable to keep the annoyance from her tone.

"Paladin, Booth. All right? Paladin. I'm fine."

"I know, Bones – that's not why I'm calling. You got a minute?"

She glanced at the students, who had stopped their approach when they saw Farnham walk away. Several were already filing back into the building.

"That's all I have, actually – I'm in the middle of a seminar, but we're taking a break. Do you have any idea how many smoking breaks writers require?" she asked, watching as Farnham retreated to a neighboring tree to light another cigarette. She realized her error – Caleb had gone into great detail to explain the difference between workshops, seminars, panels, and readings, but she honestly couldn't care less at the moment.

There was a long pause on the line. "No, Bones – a lot, probably. Listen, I was wondering if I could run somethin' by you?"

The tone in his voice was enough to bring her out of herself – she turned her back on Farnham and his smoking circle, focusing on her partner.

"What's wrong?"

He sighed – he sounded worried. Or tired. Definitely stressed. "It's Parker. He's okay, but he fell off the monkey bars and broke his wrist."

Caleb came over then, looking at her curiously. "We should probably get started," he said hesitantly.

She put her hand over the phone. "Start without me – I have to take this."

He raised his eyebrows. "Everything okay?"

She nodded. He waited for a moment, but returned inside when he seemed to realize that she wouldn't elaborate any further. Brennan thought of Parker, with his father's charm and inherent sensitivity, falling off the jungle gym. Booth would be frantic, she realized.

"Which specific bone was broken?" she asked.

"I don't know, Bones," he said, sounding exasperated. "His wrist bone."

"Was it intra- or extra-articular," going through the types of breaks, wondering already about the angle of the fall and what the doctor had already done to address the fracture.

"I don't know – it's broken." She heard him snapping for someone – most likely the doctor, and couldn't suppress a smile. "Hey, Doc – is the break inter or…" he returned to her. "What the hell am I asking him, Bones?"

"Is the doctor there? I'd like to speak with him," she said, leaning back against the tree so she could retrieve her PDA from her purse.

"Yeah?" She thought he sounded relieved. "That'd be great, Bones. Thanks. He's right here. Dr. Willard."

She spoke to the doctor for a couple of minutes, relieved to find that the break was a minor one that should heal without complications. When she'd finished speaking with him, Booth came back on.

"He has a distal radius fracture – a very simple break," she told him, then briefed him on the details. When she was finished, Booth breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Yeah? So, he's fine – no big deal. God, that's great. Thanks, Bones."

She smiled, slightly overwhelmed by his gratitude. How many things had he done for her over the years? How many silly gifts, kind words, reassuring glances, last-minute rescues, had she received from him? All she'd done was talk to a doctor for him, and he seemed beside himself.

"Stop thanking me, Booth, it's not a problem. Is Parker okay?"

There was a moment's silence before Booth said, "Can you take another second – the patient wants to say hi."

She actually blushed, tears unexpectedly filling her eyes. She managed a laugh, hoping that Caleb wouldn't return to ask what was going on.

"Of course. Put him on."

A moment later, Parker was there. She felt an ache in her throat, longing more than she could have imagined to just be back home. Back with Booth, back with Parker, back at the Jeffersonian.

"Did you hear I broke my wrist, Dr. Brennan?" he asked.

She nodded, feeling slightly ridiculous as she brushed away her tears. "I did – are you okay? It must've hurt."

"Yeah – it did. A lot. And it made this pop sound, like – "

She made the noise she imagined he'd heard when the bone split, apparently impressing the boy.

"Yeah, that's it – _exactly_ like that. And it really hurt, but I didn't even cry. You can ask anybody," he added, as though she might doubt him.

"Wow – that's pretty impressive. I'm sure I would have cried."

She heard Parker shout to his father, not even bothering to remove his mouth from the phone. "Dr. Brennan says she _definitely _would've cried, Dad. But that's just 'cause she's a girl. If it was you, you wouldn't've cried, right? You would've been tough, like me."

Brennan felt it was her duty to set the boy straight. "I don't know, Parker," she hedged. "I've seen your Dad cry over a lot less than a broken wrist."

There was a pause on the line. She wasn't sure if she should continue, not wanting to shatter the boy's image of Booth as a superhero.

"There was that time I ate the last eggroll from Wong Foo's," she said, continuing despite her apprehension. The boy giggled a little. "And when his team lost the Superbowl," hoping she got the name of the contest correct. Parker's giggling got louder. "And then there's that football movie – "

Parker was in hysterics. She heard Booth tell him to wrap it up, and the little boy pulled himself together.

"Dad says I have to give the phone back, Dr. Brennan. I'll see you when you come home, right?"

She smiled. "Of course. I hope your wrist feels better soon."

And then Booth was back again. "I'll let you get back to your classes – we still on for tonight?" he asked.

She nodded. "Of course. I'll talk to you then."

He hung up, and she was alone once more. The conversation made her feel better, somehow – the fact that Booth had called her. That Parker had needed her. That life didn't just go on without her, simply because she wasn't in D.C. at the moment. She thought that perhaps she'd ask someone if they knew of a toy store nearby where she could get something for Parker – maybe a stuffed animal, or an appropriately disgusting gift that only an eight-year-old boy would appreciate.

She was just leaving the garden for the house, feeling inexcusably lighter given that her partner's little boy had just broken his wrist, when something changed. She wasn't certain if it was something moving in her periphery, or merely shadows moving through a glade of trees, but whatever it was made her stop. It was broad daylight, she reasoned. Though the gardens were empty right now, there were over one hundred people within shouting distance. Nevertheless, she found that her heart rate had increased substantially. A second or two passed like this – Brennan standing perfectly still, straining to see into the grove of trees just outside the garden's edge, listening intently for a sound that might verify someone's presence.

There was nothing.

She took a step closer to the trees, her hand reaching into her purse.

Still nothing.

Her fingers closed around the grip of her .22, though she kept the weapon inside her purse. Another step. It was warm; a perfect August day, with the sun high in a blue sky and the sound of laughter carried on the breeze, from the workshops going on inside.

Another step.

A twig snapped from inside the grove of trees. The sound stopped her in her tracks. It was followed by a flurry of movement – another twig snapping, a sound as though someone or something had fallen – or jumped – from somewhere high up. Someone hiding in one of the trees? This was the point when Booth would tell her to stay put, call for back up. Go inside, and wait for him. None of which she would ever do, of course. Instead, she removed the gun from her purse, unlocked the safety, and sped her pace toward the trees. She could hear someone running away now, but the undergrowth was too thick to see anything.

And then, just before she entered the grove, a voice came from behind her.

"Dr. Brennan?"

She turned, her heart hammering now, perspiration damp at her back and forehead, the hair standing on end at the nape of her neck. TJ stood at the entrance to the garden, watching her uncertainly.

"Caleb asked me to come down – are you, uh… Coming back?" His eyes were fixed on the gun she was holding in plain sight now, his eyebrows raised in alarm.

She took a breath and attempted to smile, lowering the weapon to her side.

"Yes, of course. I just, uh… Thought I saw a rabbit."

TJ nodded. If it were Caleb, she suspected he would have passed out by now. TJ merely offered a slight grin, however, laughing uncertainly. "Well, you might want to holster that thing for now – I'm pretty sure the Llewellyns have a pretty strict no hunting policy here."

She double-checked the safety and returned the gun to her purse. Waited for her heart to return to its normal rhythm. Followed TJ inside, up the stairs, down the maze of corridors. Back to the classroom.

Where Jason Farnham was nowhere to be found.

* * *

That night, much to Jamie, TJ, and Caleb's disappointment, Brennan informed them that she was too tired to join them for yet another reading and post-reading dance party. Really, she had no idea how these people managed to get any writing done whatsoever. She met with Washington briefly to inform him of the incident in the grove outside the Llewellyns – he listened intently, his brow furrowed in concern.

"You're not supposed to go after them – I'm not sure how much more clear I can be on that. You're supposed to call me," he said, clearly agitated. After a moment's thought, he said, "I didn't think he'd make a move so soon." Almost as though he was talking to himself.

She looked at him. "You didn't?"

They were at the same café they'd visited on Sunday, though this time Washington was in a suit and tie. He was lacking his bulldog companion, and seemed considerably more tense.

"No," he said honestly. "Whoever this guy is, he seems to take his time getting to know his victims. I thought it would be faster than usual since he's already got a fix on you from your books, but not this fast. You've only been here a few days. I'm gonna get a security detail on you - we'll hang back, but I want someone nearby if you get in trouble."

She nodded. Normally, she might argue the point, but she was honestly still a bit unnerved by whoever had been watching her that afternoon.

"Do you know Jason Farnham?" she asked. She knew he didn't fit the profile, but Brennan couldn't shake the way the man had been watching her, his outbursts and stories and, of course, the fact that he'd been noticeably absent for the remainder of the class that day.

Washington nodded. "Yeah – the other professor in your workshops right now, right? Why, is he giving you trouble?"

"Some, yes. Do you know anything about him? I think I'd feel better if you did a background check of some kind. Something seems off-keester about him."

Washington looked at her, ducking his eyes so she wouldn't see his smile. "That's off-kilter, actually. But I'll check him out."

"Thank you," she said, not terribly concerned about her error. She was used to everyone's corrections by this time.

"So, what's on the agenda for you tonight? Mad dance party? Tailgating at the park?"

She rolled her eyes, stifling a yawn. "Bed. Early. I told the others I was skipping the reading tonight – I'm going home to call Booth and go to sleep."

She expected some kind of reproach, but Washington seemed to think this was a good idea.

"Good – you look a little tired. Get some rest. I've been having a detail check your house every hour, but I think I'm gonna up that. And I'll get a shadow to start tailing you tomorrow. Watch out for yourself, all right?"

She nodded. Watched him walk away, and then did the same. It was almost nine o'clock – the horizon a deep, dark blue, the sidewalk filled with people. As she walked, she caught herself looking over her shoulder periodically, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. By the time she got home, her heart rate had increased yet again; she disarmed her alarm, locked the front door, and kept her gun in hand as she checked the house for intruders.

She realized suddenly that somehow in the past six hours, this case had become very, very real.

That night, she didn't tell Booth about the incident outside the Llewellyns, knowing that he would only worry unnecessarily about something he could do nothing about. Before she called him, she got a pint of Ben & Jerry's from the refrigerator and took it upstairs to bed, hitting the number one on her speed dial as she climbed under the covers. It was only nine o'clock, but frankly she didn't care. Somehow, an hour on the phone with Booth sounded like the best way she could think of to pass an evening. Well – not the _best_ way, perhaps, but certainly the best way given his proximity.

She told him about her conversation with Washington, about the people she'd met and the parties she'd gone to and the suspects she'd begun to consider. He, in turn, told her about his case with Angela, and Parker's wrist, and what was happening at the Jeffersonian without her. He reprimanded her yet again for forgetting about the tracking device (damn it), and when he told her it was her job to contact his friend the next day, she suddenly felt very, very tired. When she told him she could handle it, she realized that the sigh she'd let escape sounded far more long-suffering than it should.

"Are you sleeping?" he asked immediately, predictably enough. "I mean – you know, getting to bed at a decent time, all that? And eating? You've gotta eat, Bones."

She looked at the ice cream now melting by her bedside – it was half empty, demonstrating that she was, indeed, eating just fine.

"I can take care of myself," she told him, wondering how many times she'd said this to him over the years. "I just want to get this finished as quickly as possible, and come home," she said honestly.

"Me too, Bones." He released a long exhalation. A sigh or a huff – sometimes it was hard to tell with Booth. "I miss you too, you know? A lot."

The words were enough to bring tears to her eyes. She stirred her soupy ice cream and thought of what they would be doing if she was there. Then realized that Parker was there, too, so probably all of the things that came to mind were out of the question.

"You'll be here in nine days," she said, doing the math in her head. "There's a park in my neighborhood that's very pretty, and some hiking trails nearby."

"Nine days, huh?" he said. She blushed, realizing what she'd said. "So, are you counting the hours, too?"

"Very funny," she said, trying to cover her embarrassment. "I was merely saying that I think you'll like the area – "

"Relax, Bones. Trust me, I've got my own countdown going. And I've got about a hundred things I've been dying to try once you're in my arms again, so I'm not really plannin' on doing much hiking."

She almost dropped her ice cream. Warmth began pooling at her center, enough to make her ache. She swallowed, struggling to keep her voice even.

"Well, that sounds very promising," she managed.

"Trust me, baby – you get me out there and I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure you never want me out of your sight again," he said. The warmth turned to a slow liquid boil, and Brennan realized suddenly that she didn't want him to hang up. Ever. She wanted to stay on the phone with him all night – wanted him to tell her about the things he'd do to her, wanted to hear about his day and the weather and what he'd be having for breakfast in the morning. She didn't want to hang up the phone, and be alone here with someone who may or may not be watching her every move, waiting for the perfect moment to steal her away.

None of that was logical, however, and so Brennan maintained her composure. Did the rational thing. Remembered that it was nearly one o'clock there and he would have to be up early tomorrow to take care of Parker.

"You should get some sleep," she said reluctantly. "It's later there than here, you must be exhausted. I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

He sighed. Good, she thought – not vindictively, but with genuine relief. He really did miss her. The idea still seemed unbelievable, somehow. Booth missed her. "Yeah, Bones – talk to you then. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Booth."

She hung up and took her soupy ice cream downstairs to the freezer. Checked the security alarm one more time to make sure it was activated, and went back upstairs to her bedroom. There were files she should go through, manuscripts she should read, Jeffersonian business she should attend to. Instead, she crawled back under the covers and switched off the bedside lamp. And for the first time in over a week, Brennan was asleep long before midnight.

Her good night's sleep didn't last, however. By three o'clock, the nightmare featuring Abby Martin had returned. Brennan was so tired that she attempted to get back to sleep afterward, but it was clear after only a few minutes that she was awake for the day. She went through more manuscripts, and then at sunrise showered and dressed and stepped outside for some fresh air.

She didn't realize consciously where she was headed that morning – though she supposed that if she were being honest, she would have to admit that it was precisely the place she'd been thinking of visiting ever since she'd first learned of the Lady Killer. Hadn't she looked up the address? Mapped it out on Google, printing out the directions when she was still in D.C.? She'd folded the paper into a tidy square and relegated it to a corner of her purse, where she could retrieve it when the time was right.

And apparently, at not quite seven a.m. on a Thursday morning, that time had come.

It was a warm morning, the perfume of roses and forsythia, hydrangea and freshly mown grass strong in the air. She walked the twenty-six blocks down to the river, passing bicyclists and buses, storefronts, sidewalk cafes, and a fleeting two blocks of Asian grocery stores and restaurants that was Portland's version of Chinatown, until she reached the river and the multitude of bridges that divided the city. She followed Sixth Street up to Burnside, where the tone of the city changed. Graffiti, more traffic, a strip club with bars on the windows, indigents propped against the buildings or panhandling on the sidewalks.

If Booth knew she was wandering around like this, he'd have a heart attack – even though it was broad daylight. Even though it was Portland, one of the safest cities in the country. Even though Brennan had her cell phone and her .22 and an entire arsenal of self-defense moves at her disposal. But that was Booth – she'd grown accustomed to his overprotective nature, if not entirely fond of it.

Once she was over the Burnside Bridge and officially on the Northeast side of town, she walked several more blocks until she found what she was looking for.

It wasn't what she had expected. Or, perhaps it was; honestly, she wasn't entirely certain _what_ she'd been expecting. The house – the one that had once been occupied by Rachel and Abby Martin – was small. Brennan hadn't realized how small when she'd seen it in the photo, as it had been partly obscured by Rachel and Abby's smiling faces. It was in a bad part of town, the front yard overgrown and a rusted metal fence erected to keep trespassers at bay. It had been painted a pretty, periwinkle blue in the photo she'd seen – no one had painted it anything different since that time, but now the blue was faded and peeling. The door – painted bright yellow in the picture – was equally faded, with obscenities now spray painted across the center.

She tried to imagine the kind of person who would paint their house blue, their front door bright yellow. Brennan knew from the file that Dr. Martin had been a widow – that Abby's father had died of a brain tumor several years before her mother went missing. And yet, despite the loss of a man she'd presumably loved, Rachel kept going. She became Chief of Surgery. Bought a new house, painted her front door a cheerful color that was in stark contrast to the other, dour looking residences in the neighborhood. In the photo, she and her daughter looked happy – they laughed, perhaps cooked dinner together, perhaps painted this house with their own hands.

She was speculating, she realized, which accomplished nothing. Baseless theories that had no merit in the investigation. Tired from the long walk and an admitted lack of sleep over the past week, Brennan sat down on the curb across the street and stared at the house. No one came or went, and a sign affixed to the front gate with fishing line warned outsiders to KEEP OUT in bold letters. She wondered if Abby came back here after her mother vanished, to watch the paint fade and the yard turn to weeds – waiting for her family to return.

Brennan herself had returned to her own childhood home for years after her parents' disappearance. It was the first thing she used to do whenever she went to a new foster family, actually: write her new address in bold black marker with her name above it and the words _You can find me here, I'm waiting. Love, Temperance. _She would take the bus or the train or whatever she needed to take to get back to her old neighborhood, put the note in exactly the same spot every time, and then take the bus or the train and return to the new, strange family that was not her own.

When Brennan was seventeen, a new family moved into her old house. She'd just been taken in by the Bradshaws, who had two toddling foster daughters and a mean teenage son. Using money she'd squirreled away babysitting at her last foster home, she'd had to take the train and two buses to get back to her parents' house this time. And there they were – people she didn't know, parking a car that did not belong to her parents in her old driveway. Unloading children that were neither her nor Russ, from the back seat and carrying them in the front door.

Brennan had waited in the shadows until the neighborhood was dark and all the lights in the house were out. She snuck into the backyard where her father used to teach her about the stars, where her mother used to plant tomatoes each spring, where Russ used to tease her about being a 'brainiac.' There was a secret hiding space that her father had made at the base of an old oak tree – the place where they kept their family treasures, he told her. In the dead of night, seventeen-year-old Brennan – gawky and insecure, abandoned and unloved – dug up the box of treasures and removed the note she'd left only four months earlier, with the last foster address. She replaced it with the new one, and did not cry. Did not doubt.

They would be back.

Was this how Abby felt? Or had the girl known, somehow, that her mother wasn't coming back? Brennan had lived an insulated, relatively happy life until that day when her parents vanished, but Abby had already lost her father – she would have known that terrible things happened. That parents died, never returned, when the idea had been unthinkable to a fifteen-year-old Temperance.

More speculation. Brennan shook herself from her reverie, deciding that she would do an early check-in with Booth rather than waiting until her workshops began. She stood to begin the long walk home, surprised to find her eyes tearing when Booth answered on the second ring.

"Booth's international house of pancakes," he said.

"Paladin," she said immediately.

"Bet you say that to all the guys," he said, and she could picture the smirk when he said it. It sounded like his mouth was full. It was eleven o'clock on a Thursday morning there – she wasn't sure what pancakes had to do with anything.

"I do," she said, attempting a light tone that she didn't necessarily feel. "And you'd be amazed how effective it is – I've found that men are invariably aroused by obscure references to ancient French war heroes."

"I know I am," Booth said.

"Why are you having pancakes at eleven on a Thursday morning?" she asked.

"Hey, Parks," she heard him say, "Dr. Brennan wants to know why we're having pancakes on Thursday."

"Because pancakes make your bones _strong_!" Parker shouted in reply.

She laughed, despite the fact that this was a patently false statement. "You took the day off?"

"I took the day off," Booth confirmed. "Whoa, bub – that's way too much syrup for one man. Sorry, Bones – just a second."

She smiled, feeling suddenly lighter as she listened to Booth try to convince his son to surrender the maple syrup. A few seconds passed before he returned.

"Sorry about that, where were we?"

"You were about to explain to me how a confection consisting primarily of flour and a minimal amount of dairy and eggs can possibly fortify bones," she said.

There was a crash on the other end of the line, followed by a shouted near-curse from Booth and a series of giggles from Parker.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "It sounds quite hectic there."

"Yeah, I just tripped over one of Parker's trucks." he griped, obviously irritated. "And Parks decided around four o'clock this morning that he'd rather sleep with me – "

"Wouldn't we all," she said dryly, which made Booth apparently lose track of where he was walking and stub his toe, sending Parker into a fresh fit of giggles.

"Hey, pal, why don't you go get your room cleaned up so we can get to the park," she heard Booth say. Parker only resisted for a moment before he shouted 'Bye, Dr. Brennan' to her and apparently left the room.

A moment later Booth returned, his voice considerably huskier than it had been when his son was present. "All right, young lady, that's enough out of you," he said to her sternly, but she could tell he was pleased by her earlier comment. "You can't just call first thing in the morning from two thousand miles away – while my kid's in the room, no less, – get me all hot and bothered and then leave me hangin' while you go get hit on by a bunch of Hemingway wannabes."

She laughed. "I'm sorry – it won't happen again. So, Parker woke you at four?"

"Yeah. And I'm tellin' you, the kid's gonna be a soccer all-star one day, judging from the way he kicks in his sleep. Plus, he almost took me out with that goddamn cast. He tossed and turned so much I never really got back to sleep after that. You?"

"No kicking eight-year-olds, but essentially the same."

"Right." He was distracted, she could tell. There was another crash, this one farther off in the apartment, and Booth muttered, "Damn it. Listen, Bones – "

"Go, I'm fine," she said immediately. "I'll talk to you tonight?"

"I'm sorry – I just have a feeling Parker's renovating his room, and I'm not gonna like the results. Nine o'clock your time, stroke of twelve mine?"

She smiled, feeling that familiar wash of loneliness crawl over her. "I'll talk to you then."

"Talk to you then," he affirmed.

The line went dead. She flipped her phone shut, reoriented herself to the unfamiliar neighborhood, and set out for the Llewellyns.

Jason Farnham returned to workshops that afternoon as though nothing had happened. He offered no explanation as to where he'd vanished after his confrontation with Brennan, but he did seem better at staying on task throughout the workshop that day. The same routine of seminars and panels and readings and parties occupied the remainder of the day, and Brennan was disappointed to find that she only reached Booth's voicemail to check-in from the party that night.

On Friday, Brennan called Booth early so she'd have an opportunity to actually speak with him before workshops began. She sent Caleb out for coffee, and as yet no students had arrived – and of course, Farnham wouldn't be there until after nine o'clock. She had some time.

It was clear as soon as he answered the phone, however, that she'd caught him in a bad mood.

"Paladin," she said when he answered.

"Hey, Bones," he responded, something in his voice telling her that it wouldn't be a good conversation.

"Are you on your lunch break?" she asked, disliking this sudden feeling that she should walk on eggshells around his bad mood.

"Nah – I'm on my way to the Jeffersonian to pick up Angela. We've got one more art class, see if we can flush the mystery painter guy."

He'd told her a few details of the case, but not many. She made a mental note to call Angela over the weekend to find out more.

"You sound weird," she said frankly.

He huffed – definitely not a sigh, but the patented Booth huff. "Yeah, well, it hasn't been a great day."

She waited for him to elaborate, thinking suddenly of all the times she'd spilled her intestines to him, only to have him shut down the instant she asked him anything personal. It had taken her four years, but she'd finally learned that the best way to get Booth to share what he was feeling was to simply wait him out.

"Rebecca's pissed about Parker's arm," he finally confessed. "I knew she'd be upset, but I had no idea she was gonna go completely berzerk like this. I don't even know if she'll let me take him overnight anymore."

"But it wasn't your fault – he would have been at exactly the same place doing exactly the same thing, whether he was staying with you or Rebecca."

"Yeah, I know – believe me, I gave her pretty much the same line. She wasn't buying it."

Brennan hesitated, not sure what else to say. She'd learned in these situations that if she said anything to malign Rebecca, Booth would instantly become defensive of his son's mother… However, if she took Rebecca's side, she'd hurt Booth's feelings and he would shut down completely. Honestly, this was precisely why she hated psychology and loved bones.

"It wasn't your fault," she said lamely, settling for the one truth she felt was indisputable. "You're the best father I know."

There was a pause on the line, before Booth responded. When he did, his voice sounded perceptibly lighter.

"Thanks, Bones. You always know what to say."

She laughed slightly. "I don't think anyone's ever said that to me."

He echoed her laughter a moment later. "Well, okay – yeah, maybe that's not exactly true. But still… You always make me feel better, somehow."

There was an awkward silence on the line, while Brennan tried to decide what to say to this. Ironically enough, words eluded her at the moment. After a second or two, Booth seemed to sense her discomfort and changed the subject.

"So… All right, enough about me. How's everything there? You get in touch with my buddy Artie yet?" he asked. Something about his tone told him he already knew the answer.

"I forgot," she said reluctantly.

Another pause. When he spoke again, the tension had returned to his voice, though it seemed as though it had increased since the beginning of their conversation.

"Wow, now there's a shocker. And Washington hasn't said anything about setting you up with something? Where the hell is he in all of this?"

"We have it under control, Booth," she said, aware that her own tone had turned from warm to considerably more chilled at the turn in their conversation.

"Oh yeah?" he asked. "How often is he around there? I mean, is he actually watching your place at all? Or are you just kind of out there, waiting for this guy to take you?"

"I told you – we have it under control. It's not up to you to keep me safe – it was my decision to come out here."

"And I guess I'm just supposed to sit back and not worry, even though I'm going through the same fuckin' files you are every night," he returned immediately. "What about this do you not get, Bones? It's not make believe, it's not my fucking imagination – there's someone out there who's killed at least eight women, probably a hell of a lot more."

He wasn't actually shouting, but he was as close as Brennan planned to let him get. Instead of feeling badly about not following up with his idiotic friend, she found herself as irritated as he was. She stood and checked the hallway, relieved to find that none of the students had arrived yet.

"I don't know exactly what your issue is," she said tersely. "But you're acting as though I've never demonstrated how ably I can take care of myself. How many times have you seen me take someone down, shoot with precision, maneuver myself out of a difficult situation – "

"And how many times would it've been curtains if I wasn't there to drag your ass out of the dirt or shoot the bad guy or – "

"I wasn't aware we were keeping score," she said, her voice rising in disbelief. "But if we are, how many times have _I _been the one who figured everything out at the last minute or helped you take down a perp? I have a gun – "

"That's great, Bones," he said, and he was shouting now, something unhinged in his voice. "You know who else had a goddamn gun? Michelle Lowell. Alice Wilson. Rachel Martin had a black belt in Tae Kwon Do – Valerie Andrews was a kickboxer. And let's see, how many times was Michelle Lowell raped before this fucking lunatic finally let her die? Remind me – how many bones in Rachel Martin's body were broken, before these bastards put her in the ground?" He paused, his voice almost at a normal decibel level when he spoke next, but the words cut far deeper than anything else he'd said. "You think your mom expected to end up the way she did, Bones?" he asked, and tears sprang to her eyes in an instant. "I'm trying to keep you alive here. You've gotta listen to me."

Brennan stood silent in the room, stunned, before she finally took a breath that sounded more like a gasp.

"Class is about to start, I have to go."

"Bones, wait – look, I'm sorry, all right? I just – "

She shook her head, tears spilling over now. "I'll talk to you tonight," she told him, trying without success to keep her voice even. He was still speaking when she hung up.

When she turned around, she realized that Caleb was standing in the doorway. He looked at her in concern, handing her a cup of coffee before he tactfully busied himself preparing the room for workshops.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

She nodded, roughly brushing away her tears. "It's fine. I'm just going to freshen up – I'll be back in a minute."

She managed to keep it together until she got to the bathroom. The instant the door was shut, however, the tears began in earnest – a combination of rage and grief and hurt feelings that came like a flash flood, fast and furious and then gone. She let the tears take their course, then did her best to reapply her make-up and pull herself back together. Her phone rang twice while she was in the bathroom, then once more as she was making her way back to the classroom, Booth's name displayed clearly on her LCD all three times.

She chose to ignore him, and got workshops under way.

Following his initial barrage of phone calls after their fight, Brennan heard nothing more from Booth for the remainder of the day. She found herself replaying the argument in her head all day – what she should have said, what he might have meant, how to hurt him as much as he'd hurt her. That last thought was fleeting – she knew Booth well enough to know he was only worried about her, there was no malice behind his comments. By late afternoon, she found herself watching the clock, waiting for their check-in time. Rehearsing what she would say. She called his friend Artie and left a message, with the intention of picking up the stupid tracking device that evening. Before check-in, of course.

Unfortunately, Artie didn't call back. That evening, the University auditorium was booked for a reading of Jamie's short stories, which meant Brennan was obviously obligated to go. She suspected that Caleb had told TJ and Jamie of the phone call he'd walked in on, as all three of them seemed even more attentive than usual. The four of them went out to dinner together at a local café, then got to the auditorium early so that Jamie could prepare.

Brennan had known the reading was open to the public, but she was still surprised to find a line of people waiting to get inside when they got there.

"She's pretty popular," Caleb told her, typically understated.

Brennan nodded. "Clearly."

They followed TJ to three reserved seats close to the stage. She noted that Caleb never took his eyes from his mentor as she spoke, laughing loudly at every witty remark, hanging on every invective. TJ nudged her at one point, indicating Caleb's rapt expression during a pivotal portion of the story.

"Now there's a man who's got it bad," he whispered to her.

Brennan smiled, pleased that she'd noticed the same thing. The reading took just over an hour, but Brennan felt as though Jamie had barely spoken before the story was finished and she was leaving the stage to thunderous applause. When it was finished, she realized quickly that it was futile to even try skipping the after-party in the Llewellyn ballroom. Particularly since Caleb and TJ had agreed to play – even Brennan had to admit that she wanted to see the duo in action. As soon as they arrived at the Llewellyns, however, she excused herself to make her nightly phone call to Booth.

It was a cool, rainy night. Brennan had learned by now that there was no peace to be had on the porch – instead, she chose a gazebo in the garden, a small structure that as yet hadn't been taken over by wayward smokers seeking shelter. She'd had a beer at dinner and another at the reading, but had eaten almost nothing all day – the combination, along with the fight and the seemingly endless exhaustion she was battling since this case began, had taken their toll. When Booth's phone went straight to voicemail, she took a shaky breath.

"Paladin," she said after the beep, softly. "I'm okay. I'm sorry I didn't get the tracking device – but I honestly have been quite busy." She stopped, realizing that she was beginning to sound defensive again. She was doing it all wrong, yet again. The rain had slowed but it was still overcast, the night an ink-black veil, the details of the garden almost indiscernible in the darkness. She continued to hold the phone to her ear, trying to decide what to say next, when she thought she heard movement somewhere close by.

She lowered the phone, every muscle tensed as she strained to see through the darkness, to hear through the silence. And then, a moment later, footsteps approaching. She considered retrieving the gun from her purse, but didn't like the idea of introducing a weapon when she couldn't see what (or whom) she was shooting. Her heartbeat was strong in her ears, her hands steady, as she swallowed hard and took a step into the night.

She thought of the incident the other afternoon in the gardens, of Booth's question: "Where the hell is Washington?"

Where the hell _was _Washington? If she could get back to the house, she'd be safe – suddenly, the idea that she'd gone this far out of her way merely to have some privacy to speak with Booth seemed ludicrous. So a few smokers would have overheard their conversation; was that really so terrible?

The footsteps were getting closer, no longer trying for stealth. There were over one hundred people at the party inside – it was far more likely that this was merely a roving writer who'd tired of the band, than that it was the stalker searching for a moment alone with Brennan. She swallowed past her fear, and called into the night.

"Is someone there?"

More footsteps, approaching more closely, but no answer. She reached inside her purse, trying to ignore her shaking hands. Her hand closed around her gun grip just as a voice called out in the night.

"Paladin, Bones. Paladin," said the voice.

Two more steps, and a figure appeared from the darkness. She blinked, suddenly certain this was a mirage. A trick of the light. A hallucination brought on by fear and lack of sleep.

But no matter how many times she blinked, he didn't disappear. Slightly damp, clearly tired, Booth grinned sheepishly at her, his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets and his eyes searching her own. And Brennan knew she'd never been so happy to see anyone in her life.

TBC

* * *

**_That's right: he's back, baby. Next chapter should be up next Sunday... There will be some B/B smuff for all. And, of course, more on this pesky Lady Killer. So, was it worth the wait? I know there's a lot of information in there and an equal number of new, non-Bones characters - was it all too much, or are you still hangin' in with Brennan? Let me know what you think by hitting that magic button below and - as ever - thanks for reading! - Jen_**


	7. Chapter 7

_Okay, kids... It's Sunday again already, and I believe you were promised some smuff. I'm afraid we get a little off the Lady Killer here, but hopefully you guys won't mind - we'll definitely get back on topic with next week's chapter. There were just a few other things B/B needed to attend to, before they dive back into Serial Killer Madness. For those of you keeping track, this is my first true B/B smut, so any feedback is most definitely appreciated! Oh - and happy birthday to Marissa, who specifically requested a chapter before her big day tomorrow. Happy B'Day, Cutie! Your ramblingly ecstatic reviews never fail to make my day!_

* * *

Booth's Friday from hell actually started on Thursday, with a call at around eleven-thirty that night from his pal Artie, out in Oregon. The day up to that point hadn't exactly been roses – Parker was listless and his cast itched, and Booth spent most of the afternoon doing everything he could to cheer the poor kid up once it sunk in that he'd be stuck wearing a cast through the rest of the summer. And then, of course, there were the phone calls to Rebecca – yeah, those went over _great. _By the time he finally convinced her that Parker was okay and there wasn't really any reason to cut her week with Brent short, the better part of the day was shot to hell.

Parker wanted to sleep with him again Thursday night, so he got him all settled in and then snuck out once the little boy was sound asleep – looking more vulnerable than usual in the king-sized bed, his orange cast awkwardly propped up in the pillows. Booth figured he'd get a chance to wind down with a little Sports Center, maybe grab a beer before Bones's nightly check-in, and take a look through some of the more recent files she'd had shipped over. Except, of course, for the call from Artie.

"Paladin," his old Army buddy said as soon as he picked up the phone, a little smartass edge to his voice. He'd been making fun of Booth about the whole codeword thing ever since Booth told him about it.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, not really in the mood for a social call – at least, not with anyone but Bones.

"And hello to you, too, Seel. Relax, everything's fine. I didn't hear from your lady friend today either, though – doesn't seem like she's quite as excited about your little transmitter idea as you are."

Damn it. The problem, as Booth saw it, was that now getting the tracker had become a thing for Bones – even if she didn't _know _it was a thing. She knew he wanted her to get it, she knew it was just a phone call away, and yeah, he was sure she was busy, but she could've had the fuckin' thing surgically implanted in the time they'd spent arguing about it. But because it was a _thing – _this weird little power struggle between the two of them – she was gonna make him completely nuts.

"I'll talk to her about it," he said gruffly.

Artie kind of laughed at that. "Oh, I'm sure you will. Seems like you're taking this whole serial killer thing a little more to heart than your lady doctor there." Artie was from Boston – fresh out of Dorchester when they met, a good fifteen years ago now. He'd been on the West Coast for most of the time since, but with that accent, you'd swear he'd never left Mass. "Though I guess yesterday maybe scared some sense into her."

Booth had been leafing through a file while they were talking, but at the words his hand went still. "Why – what happened yesterday?"

A pause on the line. "She didn't say anything to you?"

"Let's just say I wanna hear your version," he said, avoiding the question.

He wasn't fooled, Booth could tell. There was a slow, kind of wheezy inhale on the other end – Artie taking a drag off his smoke, before he answered.

"Well, you should call Mickey for the details – he was the one tailing her. Just the daily check-in, like you asked. But the way Mickey tells it, he snapped a branch followin' her out behind that fancy mansion where she's teaching. She heard him, and went in to check things out." He paused. "She really didn't tell you any of this?"

"Just finish the story already, would you?" He stood, started pacing.

"Right. So… Mickey snaps a branch, and your girlfriend pulls her gun and goes charging into the woods after him."

"She what?" Booth asked, his voice rising.

Artie chuckled again. "Relax, she didn't see him. But thank god it was him and not this nut job you're supposed to be after, right? I tell you, Seel, you always knew how to pick 'em. Why can't you just find some nice little Suzie Homemaker, get married and make a slew of doe-eyed Catholic babies?"

"Spare me, all right? What the hell happened next?"

"That's the end. Mickey got away, the doc went back inside and finished out her classes. She did set up a meet with the Fed later on, though, so I'm thinking she probably filled him in on everything that went down."

But somehow, she hadn't mentioned a damn word of it to Booth when they talked last night. He was sure she just didn't want to worry him, but what the hell was she thinking? Charging into the woods with no back-up – without even calling someone first? Hadn't she learned anything working with him for the past four years?

"So, she didn't see him?" Booth asked again.

"Not as far as Mickey could tell – but like I say, you should talk to him."

Booth nodded. "Yeah – yeah, I will. You still got the tracker ready for her?"

Another laugh from the peanut gallery. "Still got it, brand new and pricier than my latest set of wheels, all set to nestle in your girl's pretty little ear." He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was a little more serious. "You mind if I make an observation?"

Booth sighed. "Can I stop you, Artie?"

"Mickey still hasn't seen a soul followin' your girl - not even that Fed who's supposed to be looking after her's been around much. You sure you're not being paranoid, Seel? Guys like you and me and Mick, we've seen a lot of things your average man on the street hasn't – that kinda thing can make you lose perspective when it's someone you care about. You don't think you're maybe going a little overboard on this?"

Booth paused for a second, already going through scenarios for what might have happened yesterday – what Bones had been thinking, whether she was afraid or just determined as ever to solve the goddamn case. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet – it wasn't the sort of thing he really liked bringing up, but he figured this time it was merited.

"You remember Paraguay, Art?"

Artie didn't say anything for a couple seconds – but then, Booth hadn't really expected him to. Finally, the other man cleared his throat softly.

"You tell her to come on over, and I'll get her fitted. It won't take ten minutes, and afterward no one'll have a clue she's got it in."

Booth nodded, not too distracted to note the change in the ex-soldier's tone. "Thanks, Artie. I'll check back with you tomorrow."

It was quarter to twelve when he hung up the phone, that lead feeling in his gut getting worse by the minute. Bones wasn't taking him seriously. Or maybe she was, but she was still bound and determined to do this thing her way instead of his; he didn't know why, but he didn't think that would work this time out. Two minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Mickey.

"Why the hell didn't you call and tell me about yesterday?" Booth demanded, not even bothering with a greeting.

"It was nothing," the other man said immediately. "I'm telling you exactly what I've been saying since she got here – nobody's following Dr. Brennan." Mickey wasn't a big guy – maybe five four, barrel-chested and strong as a mule. He had a big voice, though; you talk to Mickey on the phone, and you'd swear you were on the line with a heavyweight champ.

"Anyway, I bet she filled you in on the whole thing better than I can, right?"

Booth was silent.

"Oh," Mickey said awkwardly, like Booth just told him Bones was sleeping with someone else. "Well… She's pretty busy out here, buddy. I mean, there's a line about a mile long of guys just waiting to get a chance to talk to her. This is Doctor Temperance Brennan we're talkin' about - it's not like she has a lot of time for chitchat."

Yeah, that wasn't helping.

"If it makes you feel any better, she doesn't look all that happy. I mean, I've been checking up on her like you asked – making sure she's safe and everything. Most of the time, she looks pretty miserable," he was babbling now, and Booth could tell he was just trying to smooth over the fact that Booth was completely out of the loop on this. "She took a walk out to some crappy neighborhood on the Northeast side of town this morning, sat down on the curb and honest to god I thought she'd break down right there."

Booth didn't say anything for a second, thinking about this. He hated the idea of spying on her – truth be told, he hated everything about this fuckin' case. And it wasn't like he had someone on her twenty-four/seven; Mickey was just supposed to keep tabs on her, make sure she was doing okay and report back to Booth if he spotted anyone following her. Booth had said specifically, from the start, that he didn't want updates about anything except the stuff relevant to the case – didn't want to know who she was talking to or what she was doing… He just wanted to know she was safe.

"What do you mean? What crappy neighborhood?"

He heard Mickey riffling through some papers. "Hang on, I got the address of the neighborhood – Northeast 6th Ave. Not a place you wanna get caught in at night, neither."

The address rung a bell immediately. Booth started sifting through the stack of files on his coffee table, until he came up with Rachel Martin's. He looked at her previous address, and the lead in his stomach grew teeth.

"7418 6th Ave? Was that the place?"

Mickey thought about it for a second. "Yeah – yeah, I think it was. It was the 7400 block, anyway… Right around there."

Great. So besides taking off into the woods after someone who could just as easily be there to kill her, now Bones was wandering around crappy neighborhoods alone to visit victims' houses for no apparent reason. For a woman who said she could take care of herself as much as Bones did, she sure was doing a crappy job of proving it. Booth set down the file and started pacing again, his back aching and his blood pressure climbing.

"So, what about Washington? Artie said Bones talked to him after this whole thing in the woods – have you seen him around more since then?"

"No change there. If he's got someone following her, they're the best goddamn spooks in the business. Far as I can tell, the only one who's got your girlfriend's back is you."

Which was what he'd been afraid of. Before he could say anything more, though, he heard Parker yell for him, with that panic in his voice that he only got after a bad dream. Geez, would this week ever end?

"Listen, Mickey, I gotta go – but thanks. Keep doing what you're doing, and let me know if anything changes."

He hung up and jogged into his bedroom, where Parker was sitting up in bed, crying his heart out. Booth sat down beside him, pulling him into his arms.

"It's okay, pal – it was just a dream."

The little boy clung to him, crying hard for a few minutes before the sobs finally slowed. Booth kept his arms around him, stroking Parker's curls while he waited for him to calm down. Once he'd loosened his grip around Booth's middle, Booth sat back a little so he could get a better look at his son.

"I had a bad dream," Parker said, kind of hiccupping while he said it.

Booth nodded, wiping a tear away with his thumb. "That's rough, bub – I hate bad dreams. You wanna talk about it?"

He shook his head solemnly, his eyes starting to fill again. "I miss Mom," he said, and started to cry again. Booth pulled him back into his arms, careful not to jostle his cast. Logically, he knew this was all about the broken arm – that as tough as Parker had been at the time, it had still scared the bejeezus out of the poor kid, and hurt like hell to boot. It had been years since Parker had had nightmares, and Booth couldn't even remember the last time he'd asked for Rebecca.

"You're gonna see your mom in a couple days, Parks. You're just sad right now because of the dream, but it'll be okay." He felt Parker's head nod against his chest, the crying slowing down once more. He kissed the top of his head, then moved back to look him in the eye.

"You think if I lay down with you, you can get back to sleep?"

His lip trembled a little before he nodded. "Yeah, I think so." He took a deep, quivering breath, and wiped his eyes with the back of his good arm. "You won't leave again?" he asked.

Booth thought about his midnight check-in with Bones, and all he'd just learned about what was happening out west. But then Parker was looking up at him with those big brown eyes, and he just shook his head. Bones had Mickey and Art watching out for her – tonight, that was just gonna have to be enough.

"I won't leave 'til the sun comes up, bub. Promise."

He shut out the light and climbed under the covers, lying still while Parker tossed and turned until he was comfortable. Once they were settled, Parker mumbled to him.

"Do you think Dr. Brennan will move in with you like Brent moved in with me and Mom?" he asked, catching Booth completely off guard.

Booth kind of laughed. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to deny the relationship or not, but he didn't really want to lie to his son about the whole thing. "I don't know, Parks – if she does, it'll probably be a long time off. Not something we need to worry about right now."

Parker curled in closer to him, resting his head above Booth's heart. "I'm not worried, Dad – I'd be happy. Dr. Brennan could take care of you when you have bad dreams, like you and Mom always take care of me. And you wouldn't have to be alone when I'm not here." He sighed. Booth felt the tension easing out of the boy, listened as his breathing slowed. "It's good to have somebody around, Dad," he said, almost asleep now.

Booth wrapped his arms around the boy a little tighter, kissing the top of his head once more. "I know it is, bub. I know."

He lay awake, listening to the changes in Parker's breathing as the boy gradually fell back to sleep. Thought about getting up, calling Bones, getting a beer. Looking through more files of horribly tortured women who would no doubt follow him into his dreams. But instead, he closed his eyes, lay his hand in his son's soft curls, and went to sleep.

The peace was short-lived, however. Parker had another dream at around five, this one worse than the one before, and pretty much freaked out until Booth agreed to call Rebecca. He did manage to hold him off until seven, but even so… Not his finest hour. It turned out that calling Rebecca was pointless, though, because she and Brent were already on their way back. They'd stayed long enough to go the wedding and reception they'd gone to the Berkshires for in the first place, but then as far as Booth could tell, Becca had a meltdown around two that morning and insisted they head back. Booth got the condensed version from Brent, who'd driven through the night to get back as fast as possible.

Great.

So, Booth hung out with Parker in the apartment for the better part of the morning. They played a couple card games, watched some cartoons, and by the time Rebecca and Brent got there at ten, Parker was his old self again.

Well, except for the bright orange cast up to his elbow.

The good thing about Bec was that she'd never been much of a drama queen; she got there and gave Parker a big hug, signed his cast, and – at least as far as Parker was concerned – was totally cool about the whole thing. Booth knew better, though. Whenever she used to get pissed at him back when they were together, she got this kind of pissy set to her jaw, had this way of looking at him that made it clear he was in trouble. Back then, Booth actually thought that look was sexy as hell.

He didn't really think that so much anymore.

Once they'd all said their hellos and Parker had given a Reader's Digest version of how he fell off the monkey bars, Rebecca got down to business.

"Parker, why don't you and Brent take your stuff to the car," she told him. "I'm just gonna talk to your Dad for a minute."

Parker didn't move, looking from one to the other of them. "It wasn't Dad's fault, Mom – I did it. You're just gonna yell at him, but he wasn't even there."

Booth knelt down and straightened Parker's jacket, pulling him in close. "It's all right, bub – nobody's yelling at anyone. You go on with Brent. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Parker nodded, but Booth could tell he wasn't convinced – the kid wasn't stupid. "I had a really good time, Dad," he said, serious as hell.

Booth pulled him in for a big hug. "Me too, pal. Thanks for hangin' out with me." He kissed him on the forehead, then straightened again. "Now, go on out with Brent, all right? Your Mom'll be right out."

They waited until Parker and Brent were down the hall and out of sight before returning to the apartment. Booth's back did that twinging thing it had been doing whenever he was stressed out; he took a breath, knowing exactly what was coming.

"Look, I'm sorry, Becca – I know you're freaked out – "

"I'm not, actually," she said, dangerously calm. She paced a little, kind of looked over the pictures on his wall before she turned around and looked at him, dead on. "I know it could have happened with me, or with Brent, or my parents…" she shrugged. "Accidents happen, Seeley – it wasn't your fault."

He was waiting for the 'but' in that statement. He didn't have to wait long.

"The thing that worries me is that, really, this is the kind of thing he's doing more and more – daredevil stunts at the hockey rink, leaping from the monkey bars, climbing fences and skateboarding and – "

Booth rolled his eyes. "He's an active kid, Bec – what do you want to do, put him in a bubble 'til he's eighteen?"

She didn't crack a smile. Booth waited, getting the sense that the hammer was about to fall.

"It's worse after he's been with you, Seeley – all right? He's a sweet, sensitive, smart little boy, but he spends time with you and all of a sudden it's like he has something to prove."

She had that tension in her jaw now, a shine to her eyes that meant she was either gonna cry or kick his ass. Maybe both.

"That's bullshit," he said, but even as the words came out he couldn't swear it wasn't true. "Parker knows I love him, whether he plays sports or chess or… the trumpet, for Christ's sake. He knows I'm proud of him."

"He knows you say it, but look what kind of example you set. Nothing you do is ever good enough – you work 'til your back goes out, you play hockey 'til people wind up dead…" He started to argue, but shut his mouth at the look in her eyes.

"You're a _huge _man, Seeley – sniper, FBI agent, boxer, hockey player… And I'm starting to feel like trying to live up to all that is more pressure than Parker should have to deal with. He doesn't feel that kind of pressure from me – "

"Or Brent," Booth said, not bothering to hide his anger now. Or his fear, truth be told – because this was the conversation that had been terrifying him for years now.

"Why don't you say what this is really about, huh? Brent's a stable, down-to-earth guy – you guys have the perfect life, right? Except every other weekend, you've gotta ship Parker off to me – and it all gets shot to hell. Isn't that what this is really about?"

She stood her ground, actually taking a step in and standing a little taller, never taking her eyes from his. "No, actually – that's not what this is about. This is about the fact that our son seems to think he can fly, makes bets and takes dares and tries to move fucking mountains, all because he's trying to fill your shoes. And I'll be damned if my son is gonna end up completely twisted in knots, risking life and limb just because that's what he's learned from you."

She'd backed him up against the wall, furious now. He couldn't think of anything to say; realized – not for the first time – that if she decided to take Parker away, there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. He didn't have a leg to stand on.

He fought to keep his voice even. "Look, I'll talk to him, all right? I'll be more careful about how I am around him."

She shook her head. "Not now – just back off for a couple days, all right? We'll take him home, and just give us the weekend to get him used to being a normal kid again. Why don't you call on Sunday?"

Booth nodded, fighting the urge to push it. Or beg.

"Yeah, all right – fine. Thanks for comin' to get him," he said numbly.

Rebecca had backed off a little, but she was still watching him – like she couldn't figure out quite what she wanted to say, or how to say it.

"Seeley – it's not your fault he hurt his arm. I know that. I just wish you'd learn to take it easy sometimes. He sees how hard you take everything, and it's a bad example to set. I know you try to pretend you're this carefree, easygoing guy, but we both know that's not true. And so does Parker. You need to learn to let some things go." She looked him up and down, and it was obvious she was genuinely worried about him. "You look like hell. Just… learn to unwind a little, okay?"

He nodded, but remained pretty much silent until she'd gone. Take it easy. Learn to unwind.

Yeah, right.

* * *

Things didn't get better once he got to the office. It was just after eleven when he got in, to find Deputy Director Werner sitting in his chair, waiting for him. Booth was pretty sure Werner had never even been in his office, forget making himself at home at his desk. He swallowed and stood at attention, waiting for the man to address him.

"I understand you're working the Almarose case, Agent Booth," Werner said.

Booth nodded, still standing tall. "Yes, sir, that's right. We're just pursuing some more leads now."

The Deputy Director wasn't a big man – maybe five ten, more lean than muscular, but he had the kind of confidence that came with a very long, very successful career in the military. He stood up and studied Booth for a few seconds before he continued.

"So, is there a witness or isn't there? We picked up Monetti yesterday based on your say-so, but right now we don't have a goddamn shred of evidence linking him to Vinnie's murder. His lawyer's threatening a lawsuit – there's no way I can keep holding him if I can't charge him. And I can't charge him without this witness. This kid you say saw something is our last shot."

Booth tried not to show his surprise at the news that they'd already picked up Monetti – that was just goddamn beautiful. He didn't even know if there really was a witness, and here they were already building a case.

"I know, sir. And I really do believe he's out there – I've had the lab pull prints off his backpack, but there's nothing on him in the database. With all due respect, sir, if you give me another couple of days, I think I can find him."

"Were you not listening? We don't have another couple of days. I've got him in custody." He took a couple of steps closer to Booth, his voice rising. "You stroll in at eleven o'clock in the morning looking like shit, and tell me you need another couple of days? If you can't handle this case, Booth – "

Booth fought to keep his temper in check, staring straight ahead as the Deputy Director came closer. Werner had been a Marine in his day, and he still dressed people down like a drill sergeant. Which wasn't something Booth took to all that well. "I can handle it, sir. I'm pursuing a lead this afternoon – I'll report back as soon as I know anything."

Werner hesitated a minute, starting to quiet down a little. "I heard Dr. Brennan left the Jeffersonian – took a job in Oregon?"

Booth looked at him in surprise, shaking his head. "Well, no – not exactly, sir. It's just a sabbatical. She'll be back in a month."

A slow nod, still studying him. "And I heard about your boy – he's okay?"

"Yeah, he's all right." He started to relax a little. "Broke his wrist, but he'll be fine."

The older man kept his eyes on him, appraising him. "Not your best week, I guess," he said dryly.

Booth shook his head, with a rueful laugh. "I've had better."

The Deputy Director kind of laughed, patting him lightly on the arm as he headed for the door. "I can hold the lawyers off 'til Monday, but I need to know by then whether or not we have a witness. Is that clear?"

Booth nodded. "That's clear, sir. Thank you."

He waited until the Deputy Director had left his office before he took a breath, leaning back against his desk as he tried to ease the tension from his shoulders and back. Yeah, this week was never gonna end.

And then, of course, came the phone call with Bones. He was in the Denali on the way to pick up Angela when she called, and they weren't even a minute into it before she'd tuned into his mood.

"You sound weird," she said. He smiled despite everything – it didn't escape him that his day had been complete shit and all it took was her voice to suddenly, miraculously, set everything right again. Not a good sign.

"Yeah, well," he sighed, trying to decide what to tell her. "It hasn't been a great day."

She didn't say anything – waiting, he guessed, for him to continue. Finally, he decided maybe he could give her the short version.

"Rebecca's pissed about Parker's arm," he told her. "I knew she'd be upset, but I had no idea she was gonna go completely berserk like this. I don't even know if she'll let me take him overnight anymore," he finished, feeling a little shaky now that he was saying the words out loud. He'd been doing his best not to think about the conversation with Rebecca this morning – now that it was out there, though, he felt worse than ever.

There was another second of hesitation – she'd be trying to figure out what to say, he knew. Worried about saying the wrong thing, when the truth was that pretty much anything Bones said these days made him feel a thousand times better.

"But it wasn't your fault – he would have been at exactly the same place doing exactly the same thing, whether he was staying with you or Rebecca."

He nodded. "Yeah, I know – believe me, I gave her pretty much the same line. She wasn't buying it." He decided against trying to explain Becca's whole idea that Parker was trying to impress him, not really wanting to get into it at the moment.

Another couple of seconds passed, before she spoke again. "It wasn't your fault," she said, and it wasn't the words so much as the way she said it – this little hint of anger in her voice, like she'd personally come back and kick Rebecca's ass if she dared cross him again. "You're the best father I know," she added. Quietly, this sweet intensity to her voice that actually made him tear up a little. God, he wished this case was over.

A couple minutes later he asked her about the tracking device, waiting to see if she'd say anything about what had happened out in the woods. He was surprised how much it upset him when she didn't – never even mentioned the noise she'd hurt or the pursuit that followed. Which was when he honestly kind of snapped. And somehow, once he started in he found that he couldn't pull back – just kept getting more and more pissed, hammering away a little bit more, until he was almost yelling at her and she was almost yelling at him and everything that had been going right between them was suddenly going completely wrong.

"What about this do you not get, Bones?" he finally demanded. "It's not make believe, it's not my fucking imagination – there's someone out there who's killed at least eight women, probably a hell of a lot more."

He lost it completely when she dropped the thing about her having a gun – like that was enough to keep her safe, all alone out there.

"That's great, Bones," he said, really yelling now. He was in the Jeffersonian parking lot, sitting there with the windows up and the air conditioning on and his blood pressure going straight through the sunroof. "You know who else had a goddamn gun? Michelle Lowell. Alice Wilson. Rachel Martin had a black belt in Tae Kwon Do – Valerie Andrews was a kickboxer," he rattled off the names of all the women that had been haunting him this week, the details that made this whole case that much more unbearable.

"And let's see, how many times was Michelle Lowell raped before this fucking lunatic let her die? Remind me – how many bones in Rachel Martin's body were broken, before these bastards put her in the ground?"

He stopped, trying to get a handle again. And then, before he thought about it – before he could stop himself, the words that sealed it: he was officially the biggest bastard on the fucking planet. "You think your mom expected to end up the way she did, Bones?" he paused, not quite believing that he'd said the words out loud. "I'm trying to keep you alive here," he said, trying to keep the plea from his voice. "You've gotta listen to me."

But she didn't listen. Instead, she hung up on him. Booth called her back immediately, twice, but she didn't answer. He could still hear that little gasp in her voice when he'd said the thing about her mom – could picture her face, the way the tears would spring to her eyes because she was always quick to cry, no matter how tough she tried to seem. But this time she'd be crying because of him, and something about that just twisted him inside out.

When he realized she wasn't going to answer, he got out and headed into the Jeffersonian, the frustration turning once more to full-blown fury. He stalked into the lab and apparently was giving off some kind of vibe, because everyone on the platform turned and looked at him when he shouted,

"What the hell's the story on that backpack? Doesn't anybody work around here when Bones is gone?"

Cam took one look at him, said something to yet another unidentified fuckin' intern, and nodded toward her office. He followed her inside, just aching for a fight.

"Seeley," she turned to him with the 'Don't fuck with me' smile. "I know you've had a bad week, but you're yelling at my people. I can't have that," her voice was even, the smile still in place. "If you want to yell at someone, you're gonna have to get your own people. You're scaring my interns."

Booth gave her a look, but she still had that amused smile that drove him nuts – the truth was that Cam had never been that fun to fight with because she didn't get pissed off, she just made him feel like an idiot. Plus, she almost always won, which made the urge to argue a lot less tempting.

"Do you have anything for me or not?" he asked, keeping the edge in his tone.

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't know – why don't we check." Opened her office door and called out. "Hodgins, Angela. Wendell. Can I see you a minute?"

They all looked a little on edge when they came in, which Booth knew was because of him. Wendell at least gave him the guy nod, which made him feel a little better.

"So – we're not getting anywhere with the art classes, and I need to know who this kid was. Nobody's found anything on the backpack?"

Hodgins hesitated. "Well – I found traces of calcium sulfate. There were also trace amounts of soil rich in phosphorous on the underside of the pack, and what appears to be carbon dioxide, fructose, phosphoric acid, and caramel coloring on the bottom lining."

Booth looked at him blankly with a quirked eyebrow, fighting the urge to hit something.

Hodgins answered in a hurry, obviously sensing that his life was in danger if he didn't. "The compressed calcium sulfate is simple chalk dust – which probably means he's either a student like we suspected, or he may also teach. The levels of phosphorous in the particles collected on the pack are consistent with the area where it was found… I'd say he probably lives in that vicinity, since there were no other significant trace elements on there."

"And what about the stuff on the bottom?"

"He probably spilled some pop in the bag a couple weeks ago," Wendell supplied helpfully.

Booth took a breath and let it out slow. "That's what you've got for me? That's it? Chalk dust and dirt and soda pop."

"Based on the wear on the bag and the brush strokes on his paintings, we think he's probably right handed," Cam said.

"Oh – right handed, really?" Booth asked, wide-eyed. "Well, that cracks it wide open, doesn't it? Hang on, let me get the Deputy Director on the phone – he's gonna want to hear how close we are."

Cam was giving him that look again, like she was about to kick his ass out of the lab. He took a breath, realizing that she was actually right. Again. After a second, he managed to dial it back.

"We're gonna try D.C. College one more time," he said, calmer now. "Angela, you're with me."

And he walked out, but not before he overheard Angela's muttered "Yippee," under her breath.

* * *

Angela had been pretty laid back all week long, too consumed with whatever was going on with her to push him too much about things with Bones. Today, though, she started in as soon as they were in the car.

"Okay, what did you do?" she asked, the second he'd gotten his door closed.

"What do you mean, what did _I _do?" he returned irritably, starting up the car. "How the hell do you know _I_ did anything?'

She rolled her eyes. "Because you don't get this mad at other people. Or – well, okay, you do, but it's that crazy, flash-in-the-pan rage kind of thing before you get over it. The only one you actually hold a grudge against, sweetie, is yourself. So… What did you do?"

He looked at her sideways. Tapped on the steering wheel a little. Thought about trying Bones again, but he knew she wouldn't answer. Finally, he took a deep breath.

"I think I fucked things up with Bones," he admitted.

"Ah," she said, like everything made perfect sense now. "What did you say?"

He hesitated. "It doesn't matter, just… it was bad. We were fighting and she's making me completely nuts, and this week has been…" he stopped. Scratched the back of his neck, pulled out into traffic. Took another breath. "I said something about her mom getting killed."

He risked a sideways glance – it didn't make him feel any better that Angela's eyes had gotten way bigger than usual.

"Wow. You don't mess around when you're going for the jugular, do you?"

"Hey, you don't know the circumstances, all right? Trust me, there was a reason for it. Taken out of context, of course it's gonna sound bad."

She didn't say anything for a couple of seconds, and he didn't either. Finally, he took a deep breath and switched on the radio. Screw it. He wasn't gonna think about it anymore; he was going to focus on the case.

Except he'd forgotten what he had in the CD player. He switched it off after a couple of seconds, but it was too late. Angela had already heard.

"Oh my god," she said.

"Shut up," he said shortly. He was blushing, he realized. Pissed off, and humiliated, and doomed to spend the rest of his life around crazy squints and their crazy squint friends.

"You're the cutest man in, like, the universe – you know that, right?" she asked.

He groaned. "It was on sale, all right? I saw it, recognized the name, figured since someone I know knew the guy, I should have a listen."

"Seeley," she said, her head tilted a little, eyebrows raised and that no bullshit look in her eyes. "It's Ellis Paul. The guy Brennan told us she dated back in the day, and now you're trying to figure out which song he wrote for her." He risked a glance at her, and was frankly a little mortified to find she had tears in her eyes.

"I was just curious, all right – geez, there's no reason to get all emotional about it. Anyway, it hardly matters now, because I've probably screwed everything up."

He waited for her to argue, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she started dialing the phone.

"Whoa – wait, you can't call her," he said immediately, going for the phone before she could make things any worse than they already were.

"Relax, Booth, I'm not. We're way beyond that." A second later, whoever she was calling picked up.

"Hey Marty, it's Angela. I'm good, thanks. Listen, I was wondering if you can tell me if there are any flights to Portland in the next couple of hours?"

"What? Hey, Angela – I can't go out there," Booth said quickly. "I've got the case – "

She held up her index finger for him to wait a second.

"Four o'clock? Yeah, actually, that's perfect. Hang on, I'm just gonna let you talk to my friend here. He'd like to book that flight."

She handed him the phone, which he tried to push away. While, of course, still driving through noon-day traffic. "Angela, I can't go right now."

Except, he suddenly realized, he really wanted to. More than pretty much anything on the planet at this point, all he wanted was to just get there already. Tell her he was sorry. See for himself where she was, what was happening. Make love all weekend, and fall asleep with her in his arms.

Angela was watching him like she knew exactly what was going through his mind. She pushed the phone at him again. "We'll find the witness, okay? Hodgins and me and the rest of the team are on it. Just go."

Which was how he ended up on his way to Portland at four o'clock that Friday afternoon, squeezed between a woman who had to be about ten months pregnant and an old guy who kept falling asleep on his shoulder. And frankly, he didn't give a rat's ass.

He was gonna see Bones.

* * *

It was almost eight Pacific time when he got into Portland that night. He got his luggage, hailed a cab, made a quick phone call. Stopped by Artie's for a second to let him know he and Mickey had the weekend off, and then headed for the Llewellyn Estate.

When he got there, the party was in full swing. It was this huge, ridiculous looking mansion that was just crawling with writer types. Booth was gritty from a long day of travel, wearing jeans and his army jacket, carrying his duffel over his shoulder – he didn't exactly feel like mingling. By the time he arrived it was almost nine: Bones's check-in time. He wondered if she'd even bother calling him, or if she'd be too pissed off. Now that he was here, he was actually pretty nervous – it had been a stupid, impulsive move, but Bones wasn't the impulsive type. She'd probably just think he was being way too overprotective, and the whole trip would backfire.

He stopped on the front steps where a couple of guys were smoking.

"Hey – listen, I was wondering if you could tell me if you've seen Dr. Temperance Brennan here tonight?" he asked, feeling unaccountably self-conscious. They were both good looking young guys, way too hip to be likeable, but still the kind who probably saw a lot of action in a place like this.

They studied him for a second, like they were trying to figure out how he fit into the scene. Rather than giving them more time to decide whether or not he was worthy of their precious time, he pulled out his badge and flashed it at them both.

"I'm with the FBI – I'm Dr. Brennan's partner. I need to speak with her about a case."

That got their attention. One of the guys nodded out toward the back of the house.

"She just headed out to the gardens. You'll probably find her in the gazebo back there."

Booth thanked them quickly, and headed in the direction he'd been pointed. It was raining out, and kind of chilly compared with the stifling heat of D.C. He moved quietly, unnerved by the darkness, listening to the music that came from the old mansion, the crickets and frogs that sounded off in the woods all around, his own footsteps in the soft ground. He found a path through the gardens and stuck with it, almost jumping through his skin when his cell phone vibrated in his jeans pocket.

Nine o'clock on the dot. Well, at least she was calling him. Of course, whether she was just doing it to say fuck off or not remained to be seen. He didn't answer, just kept walking until the gazebo came into sight. He could hear her now – not the words, but that low, sweet voice that somehow always made everything in the world that much better. Another couple of steps, and he could see her. She stopped talking; he could tell by the way she was holding herself that she was nervous, tensed.

So, she wasn't as oblivious as he'd thought.

"Is someone there?" she called.

He waited a second, took another couple of steps, and then finally called out to her.

"Paladin, Bones. Paladin."

She just stared at him for the longest time – kind of blinking, like she didn't believe her eyes. And then, just about the time he expected her to really let him have it, she got this smile on her face. Hesitant, a little heartbreaking, those blue eyes of hers filling with tears just before she launched herself into his arms.

He caught her and held her tight. Her heart was beating too fast, hammering against his own, and he wrapped his arms around her and held onto her for a good minute or more before he trusted himself to speak. When he did, his voice was a little rougher than he would have liked – like he hadn't said a word for days, and was about to choke on the ones he had.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said, Bones. I had no right to bring your mom into this."

She nodded, laughing a little as she brushed away her tears. Her hands were still wrapped in his t-shirt, his still resting on her hips, their bodies still touching.

"No, you didn't," she said immediately. Then quickly followed that with, "But I understand why you did."

He hugged her again, fast, and reached into his pocket for the small jewel case that was waiting there.

"You do?" He took a deep breath. "Good." He palmed the jewel case, feeling the wait and texture in his hand for a second before he showed it to her. "Then will you do me the honor, Temperance Brennan…"

Her eyes were huge – and not in a good way, like she was about to freak out and leave town. That kind of went with the territory, though, so he didn't let it bother him. He flipped open the box before she had a complete heart attack. She stared for a second, before she finally figured out what she was looking at; once she had, she let out this low, rich, sweet laugh that Booth was pretty sure he could listen to for the rest of his life and never get tired of.

"… Of putting this fucking thing in your ear so we can stop fighting about it already," he finished.

She took the small transmitter from its case and studied it closely, then rolled her eyes at him.

"You're very funny," she said.

He grinned. "Don't I know it." He took the transmitter from her and tilted her head a little, more for an excuse to touch her than anything else. "See, you just fit it here – " running his index finger along the outer ridge of her ear, pausing for just a second at her soft intake of breath. "And no one will know."

She nodded, but neither of them said a word for a few seconds. He moved in a little, caught up in the way she looked at him, how she felt in his arms, the familiar sights and sounds and smells that, somehow in the past four years, had become home to him in a deeper sense than he'd ever known.

Before he could kiss her, however, a voice came out of the darkness.

"Dr. Brennan?"

They sprang apart instantly, Brennan looking flushed and guilty when she answered the man who was suddenly standing in the rain outside the gazebo.

"Caleb – hello. This is my… my partner, Special Agent Seeley Booth."

Booth pulled himself together, quickly pocketed the tracking device, and managed a halfway passable smile.

"I just had some business to discuss with Dr. Brennan. About a case."

Caleb nodded, but it was pretty obvious he wasn't buying it. "Nice to meet you. I'm sorry to interrupt – we just had a set break, and someone saw you head out here, Dr. Brennan. I figured I'd check and make sure everything was okay. And, you know, get some fresh air."

She nodded. "Yes – it can get quite warm in there. With all of the people, I mean. Though it's a large space, the close proximity of so many bodies with a mean temperature of – "

Booth did his damnedest not to laugh out loud, out of sheer relief. "Yeah, we've got it, Bones. It's hot in there. So, uh… I guess you should probably get back to the party."

She looked at him in surprise. He hadn't actually thought this part through – well, he'd thought about going home with her, of course. Just not sitting around through the rest of the party with a bunch of people he didn't know, without his favorite belt buckle or a decent pair of socks. This definitely wasn't the kind of impression he wanted to make on everyone here.

Luckily, though, Bones seemed to feel the same way.

"I was thinking we should probably head back to the house, to continue consulting on the case," Bones said, talking half to Booth and half to Caleb. "I'm sorry to leave early, but there really are matters to which I should attend."

Caleb nodded. Booth studied him for a second – five-eight, kind of scrawny. Bones had put his age at around twenty-five, but when Booth checked the University files he learned the man was actually twenty-eight. Not much of a student, but that was hardly against the law.

"Of course, Dr. Brennan. I'll just let Jamie and the rest of the crew know you had to work – I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course," Bones said, sticking to the professional teaching tone Booth remembered her using with Zack. "I'll see you then."

Booth wasn't sure what to say to the whole turn of events where they were taking off into the night together instead of sticking around and working this whole stupid scenario where Bones was supposed to be single, but he sure as hell wasn't going to fight her on it. They walked back to her place, and honest to God if a death squad was interrogating him, Booth couldn't have come up with a single thing about the neighborhoods they walked through. He could report back in painful detail all the times his hand brushed against her arm, or their bodies bumped up against one another while they walked, the way her breath sounded the one time he allowed himself to brush her hair from her face. Otherwise, they didn't touch – still working under the premise that Bones was single and they were just partners. Working together. On a case.

They walked up a pretty little walkway to a pretty little house with a pretty red door, and Brennan unlocked it. They went into a cramped entryway where she disarmed the security system and then led him inside. She turned on the light to the front room and they kind of stood there for a second, finally alone and apparently with no clue what to do about that.

"So, this is it," she said. "Where I live."

He looked around, because it seemed like that's what the moment called for. "It's nice," he said politely. He paused. "You think I could use the bathroom, get freshened up a little?"

She nodded. "Of course. There's a half-bath downstairs – just through the kitchen there." She pointed to her right where, sure enough, the kitchen was. "And a full bath upstairs – did you want to take a shower?"

He shook his head. "No, no – I'll just, y'know, splash a little water on my face. It's been kind of a long day."

"You must be tired," she said, and he thought she sounded a little disappointed.

"Yeah, I am a little." He nodded toward the bathroom. "I'm just gonna… I'll be right back."

In the bathroom, he took a minute to pull himself together. Ran some cold water, and glared at his reflection. It was true: he was tired. The day – the whole week, really – was starting to get to him, and he'd had no shortage of people telling how how shitty he looked today. But, he was here. And Bones wasn't the kind of person who just handed out fake hugs - she'd definitely been glad to see him at the gazebo. So, he just needed to shake it off and get out there already.

When he got out of the bathroom, Bones had pulled all the shades in the place. She'd turned off the overhead lights and lit some candles, turned on a couple lamps. Music was coming from the living room – he tilted his head, listened for a second before smiling a little to himself. Chet Baker. Bones was in the kitchen, staring into the fridge pretty much the same way she had that last morning back in D.C. Apparently, it was a habit with her.

This time, though, he didn't hesitate to go to her because he wasn't sure how she'd react; mostly, he just wanted to take a second to soak in the moment. And it was the weirdest thing, because all of the exhaustion and weight and tension just kind of vanished, standing there. She'd been right: he did like the house – or at least what he'd seen of it so far. An Einstein clock over the kitchen stove counted out the seconds, loud in the stillness. She was burning some kind of oil that smelled sweet and soothing, a blend she used a lot back in D.C.

And then, of course, there was the thing that made it all worthwhile – Bones, standing there. She finally took a couple beers from the fridge and closed the door, then turned. Met his eye. Smiled – a little awkward, a little nervous. He knew the feeling.

He went to her side. Took the beer she handed him and set it on the counter without bothering to take a drink. And there was this long second where they just kind of stood there, and she smiled a little and he laughed out loud, and that was all it took for every bit of awkwardness to disappear. He took her hand, pulled her into him and she wrapped her arms around his waist, like that was exactly where they belonged. Rested her head below his chin.

"Hi," she said, into his neck.

He kissed the top of her head. Reveled in the feel of her this close, the intimacy of the moment.

"Hi," he said back.

She moved a little, and kissed his neck – so light it could have been his imagination, some trick in his head. Except it wasn't, because they were past all that. This was real: Bones, in his arms. Kissing his neck, her body pressed against his. He tipped her chin up with his thumb, and finally managed the kiss he'd been aching for for the past week.

Once it started, the kiss deepened fast – he slid his tongue past her lips, tasted the sweetness and the salt that was so uniquely Bones, and was drunk on sensation. Her arms tightened around him, her tongue battling his own until Booth had no desire to come up for air. Now or ever.

He pulled her closer, moved from her mouth to her ear and smiled a little at her shaky breath when his teeth grazed the sweet spot behind her earlobe.

"You wanna show me the rest of the house?" he asked, low in her ear.

She nodded, but she didn't actually stop kissing him as she kind of backed out of the kitchen and through to the next room.

"This is the living room," she said, in between kisses. Booth looked up long enough to take in a really fuckin' ugly red loveseat and a lot of books, before he returned to her neck.

"Nice," he said, working his way down her neck.

"And you saw the bathroom," she sort of gasped, when he ran his tongue along her collarbone.

"Yeah," he agreed, a little breathless himself.

Their lips met again, and his hands got in on the act – found the hem of her blouse and kept moving until they found bare skin and she moaned against his lips. She was wearing a blue tank top that matched her eyes, and a skirt that was definitely a little shorter than she usually wore, which made him think maybe Angela helped her pick it out. He made a mental note to send the artist some flowers, or maybe buy her a car, when he got back to D.C.

"Booth," she said.

He nodded, but he didn't stop kissing. Or touching.

"Yeah, Bones," his hands moved up her back, focusing on the hard bones of her spine, the muscles and the softness and the strength, all suddenly moving beneath his hands.

"Do you want to see the upstairs?" she asked.

He nodded without hesitation. "God, yeah." Then, when she didn't say anything for a second, he sort of came to himself and pulled back a little. Just to check in. "I mean – it's up to you. I can sleep on the couch, or in the spare room or whatever, if you want."

She actually looked kind of amused at that. "I'd prefer it if you didn't," she said. Eyes on his, unwavering. He caught it when she swallowed hard, though, and kind of chewed on her bottom lip for a second.

"I mean – of course, assuming that's what you'd like."

He grinned. "Yeah, Bones. Christ – yeah. That's what I'd like." He reached out, took her hand, pulled her close again. "That's definitely what I'd like."

When they started kissing again, it was slower, a little gentler than it had been before. Around the corner in the living room was a set of carpeted stairs – Bones went up first, and at one point she looked over her shoulder like she wasn't sure he'd follow. It struck him then that she really had no clue, no idea that he'd follow her to hell and back and, at the end of it all, thank her for taking him along for the ride.

There was a short hallway at the top of the stairs, with a bedroom on either side. Booth followed her into the one on the right. It was spacious, with a big bed right smack in the middle of everything that seemed to suck the air out of the room. Bones looked at him, looked at the bed, then back at him again before she retreated to double sliding glass doors leading out to the balcony.

"It has a nice view," she said.

Somehow, somewhere between downstairs and upstairs she'd gotten that worry wrinkle in the middle of her forehead. Booth followed her to the balcony and gave her a hug, then lay both hands on her soft cheeks as he kissed her again.

"You okay, Bones?" he asked, trying to read her expression.

She nodded, but there was still that uncertainty in her eyes. He smiled a little, letting her go. Waiting her out.

"Just say it, Bones. Whatever's on your mind…It's all right, you know?"

Another pause, before she finally took a deep breath.

"What if it's bad?" she asked.

He looked at her in confusion. "What if what's bad, Bones?"

"The sex," she said immediately, pretty much shooting the moment to hell. "What if the sex is bad?"

He actually laughed at that one, but stopped when he saw that she was deadly serious. He went over to the bed and sat down, patting the space beside him.

"Look, Bones, I'm not gonna sit here and try to talk you into sleeping with me. We can go as slow as you want – "

"That's precisely what I mean," she said, choosing a face-off instead of taking the spot he'd left for her. "What if I don't like slow? I enjoy rigorous lovemaking – sometimes fast, and hard, and… passionate, and you seem far more interested in an emotional connection. What if our styles are fundamentally opposed?"

"Bones, the sex isn't gonna be bad," he insisted, still not quite losing the smirk he knew had crept in as soon as they started this goddamn conversation.

"But how can you possibly know that? Having never actually engaged in a sexual relationship with me, there's no way for you to objectively quantify – "

She stopped, put her hands on her hips. Tilted her head a little, frowning at him. "Booth, I'm being serious."

He wasn't actually laughing, but it was taking a hell of a lot of effort not to. "Oh, believe me, I know you're serious. That's what makes it so damned cute."

"That's condescending."

He rolled his eyes. "Will you just come sit down for a second?" He flipped through his internal Bones to English dictionary for a second, trying to figure out what this whole thing was really about. She sat down beside him with a little huff, her arms crossed over her chest and her jaw set.

A couple of seconds passed while they just sat there, Booth working out how best to approach this whole thing. Finally, he touched her hand and waited until he had her full attention, her blue eyes fixed on him.

"Look, Bones, I'm afraid of the same things you are," he said.

"You're afraid the sex will be bad?" she asked skeptically.

He allowed himself an exasperated sigh, trying to keep his patience. "No, Bones, all right? I'm not afraid the sex is gonna be bad. The sex is gonna knock your socks off, okay? Don't worry about the goddamn sex for a second."

She was still looking at him skeptically, and it crossed his mind that it might not be healthy to be this crazy about a woman who could get him going from zero to sixty and back again as fast as she could.

"The other stuff, okay? I'm afraid of the other stuff – and so are you, you just haven't figured it out yet." She was paying attention now, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face in a flash that reminded him, suddenly, of exactly how much what was happening really meant. He slowed down, took a breath. "I'm afraid of screwing up our partnership. Everything getting turned around backward and both of us landing on our asses if things don't work out." He paused, allowing a sad smile when he met her eye. "Hurting you. Losing my best friend."

She searched his face, her pretty blue eyes guarded. "You are?"

He took her hand. "Yeah, Temperance. I am."

She looked down at his hand, like she'd never actually seen it before. Started tracing his knuckles, the lines in his palm, making circles with her fingernails until he felt his blood start to heat again. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, and the smile that she gave him was enough to make the risk worth it a thousand times over.

"So, what do we do?" she asked.

He thought about the question for a second, before he came up with an answer. "We keep talking, the way we always have. Be honest, you know? No secrets, no holding back."

She took a little time to think about it, before she finally nodded. "That seems logical," she said.

Booth grinned at her. Kissed her again. Stood up, pulling her with him.

"Y'know, I think I changed my mind on that shower," he said suddenly, headed for the bathroom with her hand in his. "I've got travel dirt and D.C. summer all over me."

She followed him into the bathroom and he figured it was time to stop dancing, before all the build-up was way too much. He caught her eye, gave her a little smile as he pulled his shirt over his head. Bones hesitated for just a second, before she took a breath and pulled off her tank top.

That was pretty much the end of the story.

Booth tried to play it cool, even though it was obvious at this point that he was turned on as hell. Bones wore a silky, pale pink bra, a swell of pale breast almost overflowing the cups. He swallowed. Undid his belt and unzipped his jeans. Started the water in the spacious shower.

Bones was definitely checking him out, her eyes sort of glued to his chest. She blushed, just a little, when he raised an eyebrow.

"Hurry up, Bones – don't wanna waste the hot water."

And then that second of hesitation, the one he'd learned to expect over the years, before her decision was made and she was committed. One hundred and forty percent. She shimmied the skirt down those mouthwatering hips, over a mile and a half of creamy, toned legs, and Booth did everything he could to keep his jaw from dropping when she stood there with her pale pink bra and matching panties, and not a stitch more.

She gave him this look like, 'What the hell are you waiting for?' and nodded to his jeans.

"Do you need any help?"

Hell, no. Booth dropped his jeans and hesitated a second at his boxers, because at this point he was hard as a rock and… well, it was one thing to be naked with Bones and it was another thing entirely to be _naked _with Bones. But then she was unsnapping her bra, and all thoughts of modesty flew out the window when he caught a glimpse of her. She let her panties fall to the floor, and got into the shower without waiting for him.

The shower had been a good idea, it turned out. For one thing, he really did feel a little grungy after the day of travel, and somehow it made it easier to know where to start with Bones when he had a bar of soap in his hands – he'd always been better at things when he had a job to do. And then of course, there was that whole thing where he had a nude, slippery Bones at his fingertips, which made everything worthwhile.

They made out for a long while in the shower, her hands continually finding their way to his cock until he finally captured both her wrists and fixed her with a stern glare.

"Bones, this whole thing's gonna be over before it starts if you don't find another place for your hands. Just let me have a little fun first, huh?"

She blushed a little. "I like touching you," she admitted, like it was some dirty little secret.

He pressed her back against the shower wall, a little overwhelmed at the stream of hot water running over his back and her own heat pressed to his front. "It's mutual, Bones. It's definitely mutual."

They kissed again, slow at first and then harder before he moved down, his hands running soapy circles over her shoulders, her back, that luscious ass, while he burned a path of kisses down her neck, past her collarbone, taking the pebbled tips of her breasts in his mouth until she moaned his name and bucked her hips against him, her fingers tangled in his wet hair.

Booth had always been good at living in the moment, especially when there was a gorgeous woman in the equation, but he'd never been so focused on an instant as he was that night. He catalogued every intake of breath, every gasp, every moan, memorized every breathy, whispered plea that fell from her lips as he knelt in front of her in the shower and began working in reverse, from her feet up.

Which meant he got to spend a little time on the ankles that had almost driven him to distraction during the Outward Bound course. He made Bones sit on the little seat built into the shower, and started with the most honorable intentions – really, he was just here to make sure she got those ankles clean. But pretty soon, after he'd felt the curves in his hand, had tasted the skin along her calves and the underside of her knees and listened to the way her breath hitched and his name sounded on her lips, he couldn't wait any longer. He nudged her legs apart, then glanced up and had to take a minute to get his bearings when he saw the way she was biting her lower lip, eyes hooded with desire, every muscle tensed while she waited for him to continue.

He bent to the task, nibbling and sucking at the soft flesh at her inner thighs, his left hand moving to her breasts while he ran his right hand up her thigh, closer to her center. When he finally pressed his hand against her, sliding two fingers inside just as his teeth nipped at the sweet, fleshy spot at the apex of her thighs, she almost came straight off her seat.

She shouted his name, her fingers tightening in his hair as he moved from her thigh to her center, spreading her folds and breathing in the musk, tasting the salt, delving deep with his tongue before he moved up farther to suckle her clit. He pressed two fingers inside her and, when he felt her walls start to tighten and her breath come harder, set a reckless pace with his hand and tongue, almost coming himself when she cried his name and arched against him, just about pulling his hair out by the roots while she rode her climax through to the end.

Afterward, she sat kind of limp and unmistakably sated, her eyes closes and her breath still coming fast. Booth was positive he'd never seen anything so gorgeous in his life. He stood, turned off the water. Pulled her out of the shower, noting that she didn't struggle but she did seem to have a little trouble standing.

He wrapped a towel around her, and before he could even get his bearings she was kissing him again. No holding back, this time – she slid her tongue deep into his mouth, nipped at his bottom lip, and took both hands as she led him to the bedroom.

"Did you want somethin', Bones?" he asked in between kisses, the grin about to split his face clean in two.

"You. Inside me. Now," she said, breathy as hell and definitely in the driver's seat.

Booth had been hard so long at this point he found it tough to believe he could possibly get any harder, but those words definitely did the trick.

"So we're not worried about the sex being bad anymore?" he couldn't resist asking.

She laughed a little, pushing him onto the bed. "I may have underestimated your prowess," she admitted.

He might have taken some time to bask in such high praise, but Bones clearly had other things on her agenda. Before he let himself get too carried away, though, he remembered the speech he'd given her – the difference between making love and crappy sex. And while he was pretty sure there was no way in hell he and Bones would ever be accused of having crappy sex, he wanted to do everything he could to show her what he'd meant, because it wasn't just talk for him. He sat up, took her hands.

"Slow down just a second, would you, Bones?" he said.

They were both still naked, still a little wet from the shower, goosebumps plain up and down Bones's arms. He stood and pulled down the blankets, nodding toward the bed.

"You're shivering – get in."

She looked at him like he was hopeless or something, but she didn't argue. He climbed in after her, and pulled her into his arms. And they just lay like that for the longest time, his arms wrapped around her and her head on his chest in the darkness. When they kissed again, it was different – he couldn't say how, exactly, but it felt like something had happened in the silence that changed everything. He kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her chin, until she laughed out loud.

"You're a good kisser," she told him.

"You're a good everything," he replied. He moved a little to get better access to one of the spots he noticed got the biggest response from her, at the base of her throat. Sure enough, she gasped a little, arching into him beneath the blankets.

"So, this spot here – " he ran his tongue over it once more, smiling a little when she moaned again. "Is officially sweet spot number thirty-two," he told her.

She laughed a little. "Oh, really? Where are the other thirty-one sweet spots?"

He propped himself up on an elbow, looked at her intently. "I don't know – but I'm looking forward to finding out."

He set out to do exactly that, mumbling "Number twelve" against the pulse point of her wrist when she whispered his name, "sixteen" when his knuckles grazed the underside of her breast and she gasped, "twenty-two" when he raked his teeth lightly over the soft flesh just below her ribcage and she just about came off the bed.

"That's not a sweet spot," she told him, squirming away. "That just tickles."

He grinned. "What – right here?" he asked innocently, repeating the move.

She pushed his head away, but he simply replaced his teeth with his hand and continued tickling. She was laughing, writhing beneath him, and he chose that moment to reposition himself, watching her fully while she was focused only on the tickling. Her hair, a little wild now and still damp, was splayed across the pillow; her cheeks were flushed, her body warm against him. He ran his fingers over the spot one more time, waited until she arched away from him, and then in that split second pressed himself deep inside her. Her eyes widened, the sharp intake of air suddenly the only sound in the stillness.

"God, Booth," she whispered. He bowed his head to kiss her, waiting until she'd adjusted to his size before he began to move.

"You feel like heaven," he told her, knowing it was probably the wrong thing to say and suddenly not caring. She didn't laugh at him, though. Instead, she wrapped her arms tighter around him, arched her hips up to meet him when he thrust deeper.

Four years of waiting was catching up with him fast, and Booth knew there was no way this would be a marathon lovemaking session by a long shot. He pulled back a little, supporting himself on his hands so he could watch her face while he moved. Everything went still for a second when their eyes locked. He wished suddenly that he was better with words; that he could tell her somehow – without freaking her out, of course – what this meant. Instead, he ran a fingertip along the spot where he imagined worry lines would appear in the next few years, and kissed her eyelids.

"You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen in my life," he whispered in her ear, then immediately felt like an idiot. Who used the word pretty anymore?

When their eyes met again, hers had tears in them – which could either be really good or really bad, but when she smiled he assumed that they were probably all right.

"Thank you, Booth," she said, and he knew she wasn't thanking him for calling her pretty.

She reached up and kissed him hard, arching into him until he had no choice but meet her, thrust for thrust. They fit well – moved perfectly, like this was what they'd been meant for all along. When he knew he was getting too close to hold off any longer, he reached between them and ran his thumb over her clit (known forever after as sweet spot number twenty-seven, Booth decided) – two passes and he could feel her tightening around him, her breath coming fast and her heart pounding as she cried out. He felt his sac tighten and everything heighten for that split second as he thrust once more, before he came hard and fast inside her.

Afterward, just before he fell asleep with her in his arms, Bones rolled over and kissed him. He opened his eyes and they just lay like that for a minute, studying each other, and if it was anyone else he would've declared his undying love and proposed then and there. But this was Temperance – those sorts of things required a little more delicacy where she was concerned. A little flash of something – fear, he realized after a second – crossed her face, and he brushed the hair back from her forehead. Gave her a good, solid Seeley smile – the confident one he used when he needed to convince people he knew what the hell he was doing.

"You know I'm crazy about you, right Bones?" he asked, his voice soft and a little gravelly after all that lovemaking.

She smiled. "Me too," she said, just as softly, though without quite as much gravel.

She curled into his arms, and for the first time since the Lady Killer came into their life, they both slept through the night.

TBC

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**_And there you have it. So, what say you - too much sex, too little plot? Next chapter will be up by next Sunday, and we'll get back to the murder and mayhem. Hit the button below and be sure to let me know what you think. Thanks for reading, kids! - Jen_**


	8. Chapter 8

_Ah, another Sunday - though a late one tonight, so sorry about that. I know I'm way behind on answering all the kind people who've written such awesome things about the story, but I just started back to work full-time, and I had a choice between replying to comments and writing the story. I figured you guys would prefer the story. But thank you thank you thank you, and hope you enjoy another long chapter!_

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When Booth woke the next morning, it was to full sunlight streaming through the balcony doors and Bones quietly ransacking her dresser drawers. Half-dressed Bones, actually, and still wet from a shower – which made Booth's morning wood a hell of a lot more wooden all of a sudden. Her hair was damp and kind of curling at her shoulders, and she wore underwear and a little white tank top; Booth was positive it was the best sight he'd ever woken up to in his life. For a few seconds, he just lay there watching her, trying to figure out how the hell he'd gotten so lucky.

She turned then, like she sensed him watching her. The smile she gave him in that split second was wide, inviting, without a trace of reservation, and it was enough to make him forget every shitty moment of the past week.

"I didn't mean to wake you – go back to sleep."

He yawned and stretched, rolling over onto his side. Gave her a grin, patting the empty space beside him.

"I'm not tired anymore. Come back to bed."

She took a second to decide, but she definitely didn't need the hard sell on that one.

"I suppose another half-hour would be all right."

She climbed back in and Booth wrapped her up in his arms, breathed in her fresh-from-the-shower skin and the scent of honeysuckle in her hair. She reached down without an invite and started running her hands down his stomach and over his ass, pressing herself against his cock with pretty clear intentions.

He slid his hand under her shirt, running his thumb in circles along her toned belly.

"Wow, Bones," he said in her ear. "I always knew you were a morning person, but it turns out I had no idea."

She ran her knuckles down over his hipbone before she traced his length with a fingertip, then took his shaft in her hand without a hint of shyness. Booth took a ragged breath, lost for a second in the sensation.

"Most healthy adult males experience some level of tumescence upon awakening – it seems counterintuitive to ignore the opportunity," she told him.

He laughed a little, stilling her hand with his own before he ended up coming on her thigh. Which definitely wasn't his target.

"Do me a favor, Bones," he said, his mouth close to her ear, capturing her earlobe with his teeth until she did that breathy intake thing he was really learning to love. "Don't use words like tumescence when we're in bed together, huh?"

She moved her ear away from his mouth, looked him square in the eye. Playful, sexy as hell, that grin still working on her gorgeous lips. He was undone, in every possible way.

"What words should I use?" she asked, her eyes wide and innocent. Her smile anything but. Pressed her body against his, breathed the next words in his ear. "Oh, God?" she asked silkily. "Please? Harder, Seeley?" Taunting him.

The way she said his first name made his breath catch in his throat. He was about to flip positions because honest to God, he'd never wanted anything more than her in that second, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. Pushed him back on the bed, completely in charge.

"You did all the work last night – now it's my turn. This is supposed to be an equal partnership, after all."

He chuckled a little, kind of low in his chest. "Yeah, Bones, I guess it is. Have at it."

And holy God, did she ever.

The thing about Bones that had always gotten him was that weird mix of logic and passion that ran through everything she did. It was like most of the time, her right and left brain were fighting it out to decide who was in charge. She made love like that, too – one second analyzing every inch of him, until he felt like a goddamn lab rat, and then the next instant completely lost in the moment.

She continued with her lips at his ear, one hand still leisurely stroking his cock – not setting much of a pace yet, but God it felt good. He twitched a little when she ran her tongue along the shell of his ear, and she must have felt him move because she repeated the motion. Smiled, looking at him.

"You like that," she said. Not really a question – not even so much sex talk as Bones talk, gathering data for whatever study she was doing at the moment. Somehow, he couldn't think of anything sexier.

"Yeah, Bones," he said, wetting his lips. "Hell, yeah. I like that."

She nipped at his neck, his collarbone, ran her tongue over his ribs until it was all he could do not to switch positions and drive into her then and there. She stopped after his ribs, though, reappearing from under the blankets with a look he couldn't quite read.

"You've lost weight over the past week. And muscle mass."

Ah. So that look was… what? Concern, or something that looked a lot like it. He shrugged.

"Maybe a couple pounds. It was a pretty busy week with Parker and everything – not much time for eating, definitely no time for the gym." He didn't mention that since he'd been going over the Lady Killer files, the thought of food had sort of lost its appeal. "And I'd already dropped a little insulation at Outward Bound, I think."

She nodded, her eyes distant all of a sudden. He realized he'd lost her, but a second later she was back. Moving farther down.

"You have a great deal of scar tissue," she said, her finger tracing a thin white line just below his ribcage.

"Yeah, well – y'know. Nature of the business."

He was starting to feel uncomfortable. Booth could lie back and take it with the best of 'em when the opportunity arose, but his favorite part of making love was actually, well… making love. The feeling he got when he made a woman moan, the taste of her skin or the smell of her juices – that's what really got him off. This was honestly starting to freak him out.

"Hey. Bones, come on up here – it's my turn," he said, tugging on her arms gently. She resisted, though. Yeah, what a shocker.

"I'm not finished yet," she said.

She moved lower still, until her warm breath was on his hipbone, her hand moving from his cock to cup his sac lightly. He closed his eyes as she dragged her mouth – lips and tongue, just the right amount of teeth – to his inner thigh. It was full daylight outside now, the sounds of a busy Saturday morning just outside the window – cars driving past, kids yelling next door, someone's stereo up way too loud a couple doors down. And Bones, breathing hot air on his thigh.

Booth pushed the covers up so he could see her, tangling his hands in her hair as she ran her tongue over his sac and all the way up his shaft, before she took the head of his cock into her mouth and sucked him in deep, her hand working the base. Booth had never had a problem with staying power before, but holy shit – if just a look at Bones naked was enough to send him to the edge, this was definitely gonna push him over.

"Temperance," he said, his voice a little desperate. He pulled on her arms again, and she swirled her tongue around him once more before she let him go, then looked at him with this evil glint.

"You definitely like that," she said, still a hint of the scientist in there.

"Come here," he said raggedly, and this time she did what he asked. Dragged her body up over his, and she took a second to pull off her tank top and underwear before she was poised over him, his hands on her hips.

Their eyes met, and the way she was looking at him just caught him, all of a sudden – this mix of desire and vulnerability and strength and something else, something he didn't quite dare to call love, but it sure as hell seemed like it might be. He ran his hands over her hips, along her thighs, pressed the palm of his hand against her mound and found her more than ready. Her breath hitched at the pressure. She lifted her hips, stopped for just a second with his cock at her entrance, and closed her eyes when she sank down on him.

"Jesus, Booth," she gasped, leaning back a little as he palmed her breasts. He couldn't take his eyes off her body – the way her back bowed, the flutter of muscles in her stomach, her head back to show off her white throat and the perfect line of her neck… Booth had never been a great student, but he was pretty sure he would have aced anatomy if he'd had Temperance Brennan showing him the ropes.

He rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger, bringing his knees up for leverage as he met her again, deeper this time, the world falling away and rushing at him all at once. He let her set the pace, feeling the pressure build inside her, around him, when he ran his thumb over her clit.

She fell forward and their lips met while she continued to ride him hard, more erratic the closer she got, and then this moment when it all stopped and he watched the way her face changed, her body tensing around him until he couldn't hold back any longer. She was breathing his name, pleas and moans and senseless words that he knew he'd replay a thousand times when he was alone, remembering this moment. He thrust in once more, deep, silent, losing himself to simple sensation for that split second before he came back to earth.

And there was Bones, waiting for him.

* * *

Once they'd both managed to shower and get dressed – and stay dressed, which seemed to be the trick – Booth dropped Bones at the Llewellyn Estate just before nine, and from there took the Prius and headed out. He had a full day ahead of him: meeting up with Mickey and Art, a couple of others he wanted to have chats with, lunch with Bones at one, and, she'd just told him, her reading was that night. But, before he started his jam-packed day, he figured it was time to refuel. He called up Artie, who gave him the address of a local diner and told him they could meet there.

When he got to the diner, Artie was already there and the place was almost empty, except for a few kind of sketchy looking locals and a table full of hungover college kids. There were ugly orange vinyl seats that clashed with the red tabletops, and the walls were covered with a schizoid mix of old black-and-whites of Portland, sports memorabilia, and the occasional autographed picture of people Booth guessed must be famous around here.

He'd seen Artie briefly the day before to pick up the tracker, but he'd been in a hurry then. Now, he leaned over the man's wheelchair for a quick hug before he sat down, noting that his friend actually looked pretty good. Better than he'd seen him in a while, as a matter of fact. His buzz cut was starting to grow out a little, and his upper body was even more ripped than the last time Booth had seen him, a good two years ago now. He wore his usual army greens, and he'd kind of lost that batshit-crazy-veteran vibe that used to worry Booth a lot. His camo pants didn't disguise the wasted muscles in his legs, though, and – as always – Booth kept his eyes on his friend's face and avoided looking down.

"You look good, man," he said.

Artie grinned. "Been working out – I got a new P.T."

Booth matched his grin. He pretty much knew where this was heading, but he played along anyway. "Oh yeah?"

"I'm in love, Seel – she's a goddess. _Goddess. _Doesn't speak a lick of English, about seven feet tall… Brilliant. Jesus, Seel."

Anybody else and Booth would assume exaggeration, but Artie'd always had a way with the ladies. Booth laughed a little.

"Wow – well, I guess I can see why you look good, then." Booth glanced at the door, his stomach already rumbling at the smell of grease and fried food that surrounded him.

"Is Mickey showing or what? I'm starved."

Artie nodded. "He'll be here – said we should just order, he's running a little late."

Booth ordered up the steak and eggs – if Bones was complaining that he was losing weight, he figured he'd better bulk up. Besides, he had a feeling he'd need the calories to keep up with her. Their food had just arrived when Mickey showed, which meant Booth had to abandon his plate in favor of a hug and a slap on the back and generally shooting the shit for a couple minutes.

Mickey hadn't changed – still built like a bullet, still with this undercurrent of fury that'd always made Booth a little nervous when they were in black ops together. He was one of the sweetest guys Booth had ever met in any number of ways, but he had a short fuse – and when it blew, it was a good idea to be as far away as possible.

This morning, though, Mick was smiling that easygoing smile, greeting both of them with that voice that was way too big for such a small guy. He hugged Booth around the middle, the power in his arms unmistakable, and finally sat down so they could get down to business.

"So," Booth started, in between bites of the best goddamn steak and eggs he'd ever tasted. "What are you guys thinkin' so far? Mick – you've been watching Bones for a good week now. Anybody you like at the conference?"

Mickey thought about the question for a few seconds, like it was a real stumper. Mickey wasn't exactly slow, but he also wasn't what you'd call quick. Before Paraguay, he'd been one of the best soldiers in the unit – mostly because he didn't insist on thinking about anything first, but would pretty much do whatever it took to get the job done. In Booth's experience, smart soldiers were overrated.

"I'll tell you who I _don't_ like – Farnham. There's just something about the guy. And I don't like the way he looks at our girl."

Booth stopped chewing, kind of raised his eyebrows at that. "So she's _our_ girl now, huh, Mick? She'd love that."

Mickey blushed a little. "Your girl, I mean. Dr. Brennan. Whatever."

Booth smiled, not all that surprised that Mickey was getting a little crush. "Yeah – all right, let's move on. So you don't like Farnham. You think he could be our guy?"

He hesitated. Looked at Artie, who looked back at him. Uh oh.

"What'd you do?" Booth asked warily.

"The guy just makes me nervous, all right?" Mickey said. "So, we thought maybe we'd get proactive."

"Meaning?"

"Just a couple cameras in his place," Artie said, his voice low, kind of leaning into the table. "And a couple bugs, here and there. No big deal."

No big deal, except Booth could be out a job and be looking at criminal charges but, hey, what the hell. He decided to skip the lecture, letting his curiosity get the better of him.

"So, what'd you find out?"

Artie rolled his eyes. "The guy's a fuckin' pervert," he said.

Coming from a guy like Artie, this was an impressive statement.

"Scary pervert, or just your garden variety?" Booth asked.

Mickey shook his head. "Not sure yet, but he's definitely not right. And he _definitely _has a thing for Dr. Brennan."

Booth didn't actually want to know how they knew that; he settled instead on what they were doing about it.

"Okay – so keep watching him. We'll see if anything happens over the next few days, and go from there." He paused, spearing another chunk of steak and rubbing it around in the juices before he spoke again. "What about Washington? You guys learned anything there?"

Artie shook his head. The waitress came by with a plate of pancakes for Mickey then, and Booth got a refill on his coffee and ordered up a slice of pie, then waited until they were alone again before he continued.

"So – Washington. Anything?" he prompted again.

Mickey mumbled something through a mouth full of pancakes, so Artie took over.

"Like we told you before, he's got a good record. Started out as a SEAL, made his way up the ranks, covert ops, all that shit. Made the move to the Feds ten years ago, and he's been there ever since. He got divorced six months ago, cited irreconcilable differences. Wife got the dog and the house, and it looks like he's got a place over on Sixth and Yamhill – not a bad part of town. The last year or so he's been circling the drain a little – got a couple cases thrown out for mishandling evidence, roughed a guy up pretty good and was suspended a couple months back."

"You think he's burned out?" Booth asked quickly.

Mickey shrugged. "Or else he's just havin' a hard time at home, started letting it get to him. Happens to the best of us."

Booth nodded, considering this. "And you still haven't seen him shadowing Bones? No sign that he's working with someone on the inside to protect her?"

Mickey shook his head. Washed down a mouthful of pancakes with almost his entire glass of milk, which he downed in one gulp. Set down the glass, wiped his mouth, thought about the question a second before he finally answered.

"Not a trace. But, you know, maybe I missed something. He was a SEAL – maybe he's just that good."

Booth looked at him in surprise. Mickey was a lot of things, but one of the things that defined him was how good he was at his job. Booth'd been in the business a lot of years, and he'd never met anyone who could disappear the way Mickey could.

"So you're saying this Fed is just better than you, now? That's why you haven't spotted him? Because suddenly you're no good at your job?" His voice went up just a little, something bothering him about the whole exchange.

Mickey shook his head, eyeing Booth uneasily. "Take it easy, huh? I'm just saying, maybe I missed something. Jesus, Seeley, I didn't mean anything by it."

Booth nodded, reminding himself that he was among friends. He felt a thousand times better being here than back in D.C., but suddenly the knowledge that he'd have to leave in a couple of days – whether or not they caught the Lady Killer (or killers) – seemed that much worse. Leaving Bones alone for another three weeks with these ghosts who may or may not want her dead was definitely a little hard to swallow.

"Sorry, Mick – I guess I'm just a little on edge. So, we've got Farnham covered. Washington's okay for now. There are about a dozen students I'm nervous about, but what about this kid she's working with – Murray. Caleb Murray?"

"The Senator's kid," Artie said. "We've got nothin' on him. He's a little weird – you know, artsy fartsy, that kind of thing. But so far, he seems pretty harmless. And he's a scrawny thing anyway – half the vics on that list you gave us would've eaten him for breakfast."

Booth nodded, not quite so sure. "Yeah, well – I did a check on him, and his brother was the surgical resident for one of the vics, Rachel Martin."

Mickey looked up at that, his eyebrows sliding up toward his receding hairline. "No coincidences in this business," he said.

Booth felt the same way. "So, I'm gonna go in and talk to this Dr. Murray tomorrow – he's off today. But you think you guys can keep an eye on Caleb for me?"

They both nodded. Booth polished off the last of his pie and glanced at his watch. It was almost ten, and he still had a couple of stops to make before he met Bones at one. He picked up the tab for breakfast, and was just getting up to go when he remembered Bones's reading that night.

"Listen, you think you guys could do me a favor tonight?" he asked.

They both nodded, without asking what the favor was first – one of the reasons army buddies were better than just about any friends you'd make in the outside world, he reflected. Once you'd been in the trenches together, there was a pretty strong tendency to go that extra mile for someone.

"Bones is reading tonight at the auditorium over at the college – I was wondering if you could maybe help me set something up, make sure we get a good look at the crowd."

"Cameras?" Artie asked, looking positively damned gleeful.

Booth shrugged. "Whatever you think. But I think it's a safe bet at least one of our guys is gonna be there – if he is, I want to at least have some footage to look at later, see what we find."

Mickey nodded seriously. "Yeah, we'll be there." He paused, looked a little bashful for a minute. "Listen – you think maybe I could get her to sign a book for me while we're there? I mean, if she's not too busy."

Artie snickered, and Booth rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Mick. I think I can arrange something."

He clapped them both on the back and left them there, ready to hit the Portland pavement once more.

* * *

His next stop was one that had been weighing on his mind for a good week now. Guiding Bones's cramped little eco car back along a maze of one-way streets to the center of town, he found the address he'd gotten on Washington and parked a couple of blocks up. Walking along Sixth Ave, he checked his gun and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. There wasn't a ton of traffic, but he almost got nailed by some guy on a bicycle and a couple of buses before he reached the address he was looking for. It was warm out; Booth was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that seemed to be absorbing every ounce of heat and moisture in the air, but it was still a hell of a lot nicer than D.C. He flipped open his cell and dialed the number he'd already memorized.

"Washington," the FBI agent answered after the second ring, sounding groggy.

"Hey, Alex," Booth said, his tone deceptively light. "It's Seeley Booth. Listen, I'm in town – wanted to see if we could meet up."

There was a long pause before Washington answered. "Agent Booth – uh, yeah, of course. Maybe we could meet somewhere for dinner."

Booth shook his head, leaning casually against the agent's apartment building. "Sorry, that doesn't really work for me. I'm in the neighborhood, how's about I just come up. It won't take long."

Another long pause. Washington didn't sound happy when he finally answered, but Booth didn't really give a rat's ass.

"Yeah – all right, I guess. Hang on, I'll buzz you in."

Washington lived on the fifth floor of a six floor, secure building overlooking Pioneer Square. There was a fountain out front, and everyone Booth passed in the halls seemed a little too friendly for his taste. That had always been his problem with the West Coast: people were so damned nice. Back East, people minded their own business. Kept their eyes on the ground. Out West, nobody could wait to read your damn aura and meet for tea.

Agent Washington, however, didn't seem to have that problem.

He opened the door before Booth actually knocked, frankly looking a little green around the gills. Booth had seen photos of the agent, but this was their first face-to-face. The first thing that struck him was the fact that Washington was a big fuckin' guy – why hadn't Bones mentioned that? A couple inches taller than him, lean – but not in a skinny way, in a way that said he worked out and knew how to move.

When he answered the door, Washington was wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and Booth had seen frat houses in better shape than the agent's apartment. The place was only partially furnished, with an ugly green couch facing a giant flat-screen TV, a three-legged coffee table littered with half-empty take-out containers and empty beer bottles.

"You lived here long?" he asked, staying casual.

Washington shook his head. "About six months. Sorry about the mess – new bachelor, I guess I'm just getting used to it again. Listen, let me change and we can go out, maybe grab a drink."

Booth raised his eyebrows. "No offense, but it's a little early for me. And since you're supposed to be protecting my partner…"

That got him. Washington studied him for a second, anger crossing his dark face.

"I guess we'll just cut to the chase, then," he said. "You think I'm not watching your partner close enough?"

Booth stood his ground, nodded without taking his eyes from Washington's. "You know, now that you mention it – yeah. Yeah, that's exactly what I think."

Washington took a step toward him, but Booth held his ground.

"I've got it covered – don't worry about it, all right? Why don't you just go back to D.C. and let me do my fuckin' job."

"As soon as I see you actually doing your fuckin' job, I'll be on the first plane," Booth returned evenly, taking a step toward the man for the first time. "I don't know what the hell's going on with you, but from everything I've heard, you're a good agent – or you used to be, anyway. But unless you guys on the West Coast protect people a hell of a lot different than we do back East, I think we've got a problem."

"Back off," Washington said. Low, but Booth had heard enough threats in his day to recognize one when it came. "You've got no idea what you're talking about. I know what I'm doing."

"Oh yeah? So, somebody almost jumping Bones Wednesday on your watch – that's okay with you? The fact that I was able to come after her last night in the dark out at the mansion, without a soul showing up to stop me – that's all part of the plan, right? Because if it is, I'm thinking you're gonna need to work out a new plan."

Booth took another step closer, so they were standing toe to toe. Though Washington had a couple inches on him in the height department, Booth was still pretty confident he could take him if it came down to a fight. A couple seconds passed while they stared each other down, before Washington said anything.

"Your partner got in last Saturday afternoon, at sixteen hundred Pacific time. She picked up a blue Prius from the rental agency, then went to the house I'd arranged for her. She left to go grocery shopping and pick up sushi at Trader Joe's at nineteen-hundred hours. Walked the neighborhood, then returned to call you at precisely twenty-one-hundred hours Pacific time."

His eyes were hard, never wavering from Booth's. Booth took a step back, waiting for the agent to continue.

"Saturday night at twenty-two-hundred hours, former Lieutenant Michael Aaron Sixx – dishonorably discharged in 1996 after an incident in Paraguay that so far I haven't been able to get any details on – made the first of ten passes that night, around Dr. Brennan's block. Lieutenant Sixx has continued to follow your partner for the remainder of the week, doing an admirable job until last Wednesday, when he lost his footing in an old maple outside the Llewellyn Estate just after noon."

He gave Booth a long, hard stare before he raised his eyebrows with a withering glare. "But then, I'm not telling you anything you don't know, am I?"

A second later, he pushed past Booth and headed for the kitchen. Booth followed, completely off-balance.

"Wait a second – you _knew?_ How the hell did you spot him? Mickey hasn't seen a fuckin' trace of you, and this is hardly his first job. And I did background checks on everyone working with Temperance right now – unless you've got a plant embedded so deep they've been undercover for the past decade, there's no one on the inside with her."

Washington got a beer out of the fridge.

"My day off," he said, as an excuse for the ten a.m. beer run, before he tipped the bottle at Booth. "You sure you don't want one? It's afternoon in D.C."

Booth shook his head. "So, you mind telling me what the hell's going on then? What, have you got cameras on her? Bugs? A fuckin' spy satellite?" All the while thinking of the things he and Bones had been doing in the past twelve hours – praying to Christ the place wasn't wired for sound, and cursing himself for not thinking of it sooner.

Washington just rolled his eyes, though, shoveling a mountain of food containers and what looked like at least a couple of actual dishes and some silverware, off the old wooden kitchen table and into the trash can. Once a space had been cleared, he sat down and popped open his beer.

"Relax – Dr. Brennan steps outside the house, and I've got someone on her. Once she's inside, that's her space – she's off limits. That's the way I work."

Booth didn't miss the insinuation in his tone: Washington respected his partner, while Booth was an asshole who'd gone way over the line by having someone follow her when she obviously didn't know. He ignored the comment for the moment, but it made him uneasy to think Washington knew something that Bones didn't. He didn't like the feeling.

"Okay, fine – so you've got someone on her, let's leave that alone for a second. What about the case – where are you on that? Have you ID'd any suspects from the conference?"

Washington hesitated, like he was trying to decide whether to boot Booth's ass out the door or just give up. A couple seconds passed, before he kind of shrugged.

"It's a big conference – and she's a little more popular than I bargained for. My guess is, it's gonna take a while."

Booth raised his eyebrows in disbelief, trying to keep his temper. "Wait a second – that's your _guess_? How long have you been working this case? I've looked at the files… You've got eight bodies and at least six more possibles, and you haven't even managed to get someone in custody in the past ten years. Every suspect so far's been a dead-end, and you're still guessing? I want to know why the fuck you flew my partner out here if the best you've got are guesses."

He was yelling now, leaning over the table toward Washington – who still didn't look too worried, sitting there drinking his beer.

"Back off, Seeley," the man said for the second time that morning, and there was something in his eyes that made Booth question, all of a sudden, whether beating him in a fight would be as easy as he'd first thought. "I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah, well – how about sharing, 'cause so far you haven't inspired a hell of a lot of confidence."

The other man drained the last of his beer, then got up to get another. Booth stood and grabbed him by the arm, and in a split second Washington whirled – he grabbed Booth's wrist, snapped it behind his back and bent him over the table, his body pinning Booth there.

"This is my case – I know what I'm doing. And I swear to Christ, if you screw this up and somebody else dies – " he stopped. Booth could feel the guy's heart hammering, something completely undone about the way he was reacting. He didn't struggle, waiting for Washington to finish whatever he was going to say. "If you spook these guys and I lose the chance to nail 'em, I'll ruin you. And I don't just mean the job, Seeley."

His mouth was at Booth's ear, not letting up at all as he pulled Booth's arm up a little higher toward his shoulderblade. "I'll fuckin' ruin you," he repeated.

Booth kept himself relaxed, not fighting the man's grip. He laughed, a little low in his throat.

"Easy there, Alex. You're a little tense, buddy."

He waited until Washington had eased the grip on his wrist and backed off, then straightened. Let him think he had the upper hand. He flexed his arm, shook out his wrist – he'd definitely underestimated the guy. Didn't mean he still couldn't take him, but right now it seemed smart to tread with more care. Washington took a step back, like he'd realized he was tripping a little too close to the edge. He took another beer from the fridge and sat down.

"I've only been looking at this case a week, and it's all I think about," Booth said quietly, avoiding Washington's eye when he spoke this time.

He got a beer for himself, noting that the only thing in the fridge was a jar of skeezy looking mayonnaise, three bottles of Labatt's Blue, and a suitcase of PBR on the bottom shelf. He sat down opposite the agent, and cracked his Labatt's.

"You've been on this, what, four years? Four years lookin' at those pictures, watching more women disappear, and then finding the dumpsite after all that time… That kind of thing can get under a guy's skin." He took a pull from the beer, watching Washington closely now.

Washington didn't look away. "I mean it, Booth," he said quietly. "You think you know these guys, this case? You don't have a fuckin' clue. I know."

Booth nodded. Took another sip, kind of thinking this through. "I think you probably do. But I also think your wife just left you, this place looks like it's been carpet bombed, and you're well on your way to a lost weekend and it's barely ten a.m. You're on the fuckin' edge, Agent. Which means there's no way I trust you with my partner's life."

He stopped, waiting for Washington to fight him. He didn't. Booth set the bottle down and eased in a little closer, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice.

"So, I'm in this – I can either skirt around the sidelines and pretend I'm not, which means potentially scaring off your guys and fucking up the whole operation. Or, we can work together. Your choice."

Washington thought about it for a few seconds, before he finally nodded. "I'm still lead on this. You do what I say, and you stay clear when I give the word," he said.

Booth smiled, easygoing as hell now that he'd gotten his way. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

He waited another second or two before he started pushing again. "So, you know Bones has her reading tonight, right? Open to the public, all eyes on her? I'm assuming you've got agents covering this thing – cameras so we can play the night back later, that sort of thing."

Washington rolled his eyes, laughed a little, but he didn't look all that amused. "Yeah – we've got it covered. You wanna come a little early, I'll walk you through what we've got there."

"That sounds great," Booth said. He drained the last of the beer, set the bottle down, and stood. "Now, I'm gonna get going – I'll meet you at the college at seven?"

Washington nodded. Stood. Followed him back into the living room. They were almost to the door when Booth pivoted on his right heel and caught the agent with a left hook that hit him square in the jaw and sent him reeling back against the wall. It was a cheap shot, but Booth wasn't too worried about fighting fair right now. Booth was on him in a second, his forearm at the man's throat, his body pinning him against the wall.

"I don't like threats, all right, Alex?" he smiled, kept his voice cool. "You try anything like that stunt in the kitchen again, and things aren't gonna go your way. That's a promise."

He backed off, slapping the man lightly on the cheek with an open hand. "I'm glad we had this little chat, you know? I feel better about things." He straightened Washington's t-shirt, patted him on the chest. Headed for the door. "I'll see ya tonight. Thanks for the beer."

He let himself out, leaving Washington still backed against the wall, his hand at his jaw.

* * *

Booth wasn't even out of the building before he was on his cell, calling a contact back in D.C.

"Katie," he said, letting the old Seeley charm work its way through the wires. If, of course, cell phones had wires. "How's my favorite desk jockey?"

Katie was twenty-two. Smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, built like the Sistine Chapel – inspired by God himself, that girl was. And, she worked a computer like nobody's business. She'd been hinting around for Booth to ask her out pretty much since she'd started working there, about six months before – which was too bad, because by that time Booth had pretty much lost interest in chasing after anyone but Bones.

"It's Saturday, Booth," she said, but he could tell by the edge in her voice that it was an act. What could he say? He'd always had a way with women.

"I need you to check something out for me – just between us." He hesitated, not sure how to word the request. "You remember I had you do the search for women reported missing fitting – "

"Yeah, yeah – I remember. So, what do you need now?"

Okay, her edge definitely didn't seem like quite so much an act now. "Can you do a background check on the names you came up with, and cross reference Agent Alex Washington, of the Portland field office?"

No answer for a second.

"Katie, you know I appreciate this – I mean, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. Seriously, Kate – we're talkin' life or death."

A little huff. "I'll e-mail you with everything I find out, but it won't be until Monday," she finally said.

He thought about arguing, but figured he'd better not push his luck. "Thanks, Katie. You're the best."

He hung up and headed back to the car, ready for the next stop of the morning.

* * *

April Wilson lived in a cute little cape in Southwest Portland with her husband and two kids. Ten years ago, April's older sister Michelle, a mid-level office administrator for a national pharmaceutical company up in Washington, had been the Lady Killer's first victim. And now, a decade later, Booth couldn't shake the feeling that he was only going to solve this by starting at the very beginning. Booth had called April to set up an appointment as soon as he'd known he was coming out West, for a couple of reasons.

First, he was kind of hoping that the Lady Killer and his accomplice didn't actually know what they were doing when they first started out. By now, they had a lot of practice under their belts, but back then it seemed like Michelle Lowell was a crime of passion that turned into something else entirely once the second killer got hold of her. Maybe at that point, they weren't quite so good at covering their tracks.

Second, they had both a body and a crime scene with Michelle Lowell – something that was definitely lacking after the first three murders. And while Booth had no doubt that anyone and everyone had been over both that body and that crime scene with a fine tooth comb, there was always the chance that something had been missed. At least, he sure as hell hoped something had.

Based on the photos Booth had seen, April actually looked a lot like her sister. She had dark hair tied back in a ponytail, big brown eyes that had an intelligence Booth knew only came form seeing some pretty dark things. The house was tidy, but not sterile – a few dishes in the sink, a pot of spaghetti sauce on the kitchen stove. Booth sat down at the kitchen table, not missing the stark difference between this meeting and the one with Washington just a half-hour before.

"I don't know how much help I can be – has there been anything new in the case?" she asked, studying him. She had that look he always hated to see – that fleeting glimpse of hope, before he had to crush it yet again. He shook his head quickly.

"No – no, I'm sorry, there's nothing new. I'm just going over some old details, and I wondered if you could answer a few questions."

She nodded. Two boys were playing with giant purple water guns in the backyard, laughing loud enough to be heard inside. A big black cat came and rubbed against Booth's leg; he leaned over, absently scratching the cat behind the ears while he waited for April to sit down. Before she did, she looked kind of anxiously out the window at the boys.

"They don't know about Michelle?" he guessed.

She smiled, her eyes shining a little before she pulled herself together. "I know I should tell them. They know I had a sister who died, but they're both so young…"

He nodded understandingly. "Those kinds of things are hard to explain to kids. I've got a son who's almost eight – most of the things I've seen, there's no way I could explain to him."

"I just want them to keep thinking the world is a good, safe place for as long as they can. It doesn't seem fair to take that away."

He looked around again, at the sunshine yellow walls and the little details that made a house a home – a kitschy collection of porcelain birds on the windowsill, a collage of framed family photos on the wall above the kitchen table, a stained old cookbook lying open on the counter.

"You've got a nice home here," he said honestly. "Let them enjoy it."

She looked relieved at his words, like he'd let her off the hook for something. She went back and stirred the spaghetti sauce one more time, then came over and sat down.

"So, what are your questions?"

It felt wrong talking about something like this here – bringing in this kind of violence, to a nice family who'd never done anything to deserve it. He hesitated only a second, then got down to business.

"I was reviewing Michelle's file, and I just had a couple of questions."

April nodded, like this was to be expected. And it probably was – no doubt she'd gone over it a hundred times with investigators over the years.

"She was working late, which wasn't unusual. A Thursday night. I was living in Seattle at the time, and of course Michelle was in Woodinville. We usually had dinner together on the weekend, but during the week she was really committed to her job."

"At the Rorsch labs, right?" he asked.

She nodded. "She didn't work in the labs, of course – just in the offices. But she was good at her job, and she always took it very seriously. Rorsch was always in the papers about some controversial experiment or other, and Shelly was amazing at keeping that stuff under wraps. She wouldn't even talk to me about the things they were doing there – though I knew that a lot of the stuff just broke her heart."

He didn't think they were going anywhere with the questions, but he figured he'd let April get where she was going in her own time. "What kind of experiments were those?"

"It's a pharmaceutical company, so there really was no end to all of it. Of course, she hated the things with the animals, and she was always pretty vocal with management about that stuff. And back then they were just getting started on stem cell research, but I know they got a lot of flak for that."

Booth nodded, trying to get her back on course. "So, was she dating anyone there? Did she work with anyone that she ever mentioned kind of gave her an uneasy feeling? Like a janitor or a lab worker, anyone like that?"

She shook her head with a sigh. "No… That's always what ends up being so frustrating. There was nothing like that – she had a good relationship with everyone there. She'd just started dating someone, actually, but it wasn't serious and the police looked at him first."

He wasn't expecting any different answer. "Okay." The next question was his own theory, and he wasn't sure quite yet how to frame it. A second of hesitation, keeping his eyes on his notepad and his tone casual. Just another routine question. "Can you tell me whether Michelle wrote at all? Or read a lot of mysteries – belonged to a book club of any kind, something like that?"

She looked confused. "Uh – no, not really. She was always reading nonfiction stuff – how to improve your mind, your job performance, save the planet, that kind of thing. And she barely had time for our weekend dinners, so a book club was pretty much out."

So much for that theory. Booth nodded, returning to the usual questions.

"What about enemies? Did she ever mention arguing with someone at work, maybe a boss or something?"

Another shake of the head. "I'm sorry, no. Everyone always loved Shelly. I mean – she could be pigheaded about some things, of course, but nothing somebody would kill over. At least…" she stopped, a faraway look in her eyes before she kind of came back to herself, looking Booth in the eye. "She was a good person, you know? But not easy to get along with – always arguing about something, always had to be right. She wouldn't back down from a fight."

Booth gave her a sympathetic smile, thinking immediately of Bones. "Yeah, I know the type."

"So, she'd butt heads every so often with management at the lab – trying to get them to use the new virtual experimentation technology instead of the animals, that kind of thing. And I thought of something a couple of weeks ago that I'd actually forgotten… I don't think it's really relevant to the case, but it just kind of struck me."

That got his attention. "What's that?" he asked, still casual.

"Well – that senator whose book just came out, about being a woman in politics. You know the one?"

Booth shook his head. "No, I'm sorry," he lied.

"Woolrich. Rebecca Woolrich – she's been in politics around here for decades, kind of a right-wing nut. But I saw an interview with her a couple weeks ago on one of the morning shows, and she was talking about stem cell research. And all of a sudden, I remembered Shelly mentioning that she'd had lunch with this lady politician – she wasn't a senator then, I don't think. But they met about a month before she died." She shrugged, her eyes filling suddenly. "It's nothing big – I just every so often have these little memories, of things she'd say or do. She wouldn't tell me the woman's name at the time – and I was younger, didn't follow politics myself, so it just slid right past me."

She laughed, rolled her eyes. Brushed away a couple tears, and Booth sat quietly and gave her some space.

"I can just imagine how the lunch went, you know? This crazy conservative trying to convince Shelly to quit her job and join the Christian Coalition, and Shelly no doubt sitting there with a binder full of facts and figures. Totally unshakeable."

Booth managed to keep his cool, jotting down another few lines of chicken scratch before he closed his notebook and smiled at her.

"Do you know if they met more than once?" he asked.

"I doubt it – Shelly wouldn't have been the most receptive audience for Senator Woolrich, and I got the feeling from the way my sister told it, the meeting hadn't gone over great." She stopped, comprehension suddenly flashing in her eyes. "Wait – do you think this has anything to do with Michelle's death?"

"I'm sure it's nothing, really. Just routine questions. And that's actually all I have for now." He stood. "But would it be all right if I call again, if anything else comes up?"

She nodded, smiled back at him. "Of course, Agent Booth. Anything I can do to help."

He followed her back to the front door, his head already spinning. Rebecca Woolrich, the mother of Caleb Murray, who just happened to be sitting at Bones's right hand through this entire conference. And who just happened to be mother to Doug Murray – Rachel Martin's star surgical resident. Booth knew it was a small world, but he was pretty sure it wasn't this small.

He glanced at his watch and cursed softly, picking up his pace to a light jog back to the Prius. He was due to meet Bones in five minutes for lunch, and he definitely didn't want to keep her waiting.

* * *

Lunch turned out to be an exercise in futility, since Bones was pretty much surrounded by studly looking coeds the whole time. He got a semi-stale turkey club out of it, and a stolen kiss in the parking lot before she sent him packing. Still, he'd managed to cop a feel on the way to the car, and he'd gotten a glimpse of that grin of hers which, lately, seemed to make everything a little brighter. So all in all, it wasn't a total wash.

Afterward, he went and spent money he couldn't really afford on a new suit – Booth was pretty confident in his appearance, but he figured with the reading and the party afterward, it couldn't hurt to go the extra mile. He got done tooling around town just before four, and showed up right on time to pick Bones up after her last seminar of the day.

She was wearing jeans and one of the official conference t-shirts, her hair up and a hell of a lot of the tension she'd been showing the day before noticeably absent. Once they were alone in the car and well down the road, she leaned over and kissed him on the neck.

"Hi," she said. Grinning. That's right – grinning.

He grinned right back. "How was your morning, babe?"

She rolled her eyes, but he noticed that her grin got a little wider. Huh – now that was a surprise. He was guessing it would depend on her mood, just how into pet names she was gonna be.

"Far from perfect. Jason Farnham may be an arrogant, incompetent fraud, but he clearly understands the writer's psyche much better than me."

"The guy's a hack," Booth said dismissively. "Trust me, I'm sure your students would rather have a little honest feedback from an actual bestselling author, than have their asses kissed by some no-talent loser."

She laughed at him. "Booth, you have no objective way of knowing any of that. You've never even read his work – he may be very talented. How do you know I'm not the no-talent loser?"

It was obvious from the way she said it that she didn't think that was the case, so he just gave a little shrug. "Okay, fine. You're right, you're the no-talent loser. I was just trying to suck up so you'd sleep with me again, Bones. So sue me."

He gave her a slow, sideways smile – kept his eyes on the road, but he could tell she was still smiling. A minute later, she put her hand on his leg and he glanced at her, then made a conscious effort to keep his eyes on the road and his mind on the task at hand.

"So, how long do we have before the reading?"

"I actually have to go to dinner first – with the Llewellyns and a bunch of the others. My next workshop partner got in today, and I'm supposed to meet him. David Lethem?" She glanced at him, then away again, like she was working up the courage for something. "You could come, if you wanted."

He did a double take, suddenly very glad he'd spent the money on the suit. "David Lethem? You're teaching with David Lethem next week, and you didn't tell me?"

She looked surprised. "You know him?"

"Yeah, Bones – everybody knows him. He's one of my favorite writers – I mean, next to you, of course."

She shrugged. "Caleb said he's quite popular, I just hadn't heard of him." She took a breath. "So, does that mean you'll come to dinner with me?"

He grinned. "And meet David Lethem? Hell, yeah, Bones."

They were quiet for a minute or two, while Booth thought about where they were headed and how he was hoping it would go. There was nothing he'd like better than to zip right back to the house and have his way with her at least twice before dinner, but there was something he wanted to take care of first. Her hand moved a little farther up his thigh, and suddenly his blood was flowing in exactly the wrong direction for the conversation they were about to have.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Bones?"

She met his eye, raised an eyebrow. "Is it working?" She ran her finger all the way up his inner thigh, tracing the outline of his cock until his boxers were way too tight and all that resolve he'd been working up about doing the right thing was disappearing fast.

"Geez, Bones, you're insatiable."

"You don't seem to have any difficulty keeping up with my pace," she said, using that low, silky sex voice he still couldn't believe was meant for him.

But, now definitely wasn't the time. He caught her hand with his own and removed it from his lap – kissed her knuckles, and set it gently in her own lap before giving her a little Seeley charm smile.

"We've just gotta make one stop, okay? There are a couple guys I want you to meet, and if it's all the same to you I'd rather not make the introductions while I've got a raging hard on."

"Oh." No mistaking the disappointment in her voice, though a second later it was replaced with curiosity. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see"

They drove another couple of seconds in silence, before he reached over and took her hand. Brought it to his lips for another quick kiss before he lay it back in his lap with a grin.

"Fine – if it makes you feel better, you can feel me up on the way."

Oh, that grin again. "You really are too good to me, Booth," she said dryly, but he noticed she definitely didn't take her hand away.

Art and Mickey were waiting for them at Art's place – an old, rundown garage in a crappy part of town. It reeked of oil and cigarette smoke, but once you got past the way it looked and smelled, the sweet stale taste to the air and the roar of the traffic just outside the walls, Booth guessed it wasn't so bad.

Artie met them at the door, Mickey nowhere in sight.

"Artie, this is my partner – Dr. Temperance Brennan."

He reached out and took her hand – Booth was relieved when he just shook it, instead of kissing her knuckles or something. With or without the wheelchair, Artie really never could be trusted with the ladies.

"It's a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Brennan. Booth got you the transmitter last night?"

She nodded, tilting her head a little to indicate her right ear, where Booth had placed it that morning.

"Yes, thank you. It's remarkable – I completely forgot I was wearing it."

"Well, that's what I'm here for – you need any kind of gadget on the market, and I'll get you a deal and deliver it to your door. Glad to see Booth finally caught up to you with it."

He waved her down so he could get a better look at her ear. Bones kind of gave Booth a look, one eyebrow raised, but Booth shrugged, so she leaned down and let Artie do a quick inspection.

"Damn, it's a pretty little piece, isn't it?"

If it was anyone but Artie, Booth would figure this was an attempt to hit on his girl, but if there was anything Art loved more than women, it was technology. And Booth had to admit, it was an amazing piece – about the size of a pea, oblong and flesh-colored, it fit just inside the ear canal. It could track someone to within thirty feet, and you had to get damned close to spot it.

Bones straightened with a polite smile. "So, that's what you do here? And what you did in the military – special operations, technology, that sort of thing?"

"Among other things. Seel and Mickey and me were the go-to guys for all kinds of things we still can't talk about." He looked at Booth. "Right, Seel?"

Booth nodded, but he wasn't anxious to relive old times – never had been, unlike a lot of his old army buddies, who seemed to thrive on it.

"Yeah, I guess so. Listen, I just wanted Bo – Temperance to get a chance to meet you, and of course Mickey – "

Who walked out of the back then, carrying a copy of Bones's latest book. Heightwise, he barely reached her shoulders, but he strutted right on over and stuck out his hand. He was wearing jeans and what was probably a new (used) sweater, his thinning blonde hair combed and his beard trimmed. Booth gave Artie a look, and Artie rolled his eyes.

"Mickey Sixx, Dr. Brennan. You know, like the musician – only with an M."

Bones looked at him blankly.

"I told you, Mick – she doesn't know who that is," Booth said.

Mickey just kept going, not at all fazed. "I can't tell you what an honor it is to meet you," he said, holding her hand a little longer than was actually necessary.

Booth got between them, giving Mickey a look to let him know it was time to back off a little. He waited a beat, taking a breath before he spoke again – this was the part he was dreading. But, last night he'd told Bones they'd be honest with each other, and this seemed like a good place to start.

"Bones, you remember the other day when you heard someone in the woods, and you went after them – "

She looked at him warily. "How do you know about that?"

Mickey did a weird kind of bow thing. "It's been an honor to be your guardian," he said, which made Artie snicker and Booth cringe.

"That was you?" she asked, sounding a lot more pissed than impressed, then turned to Booth.

Yeah, she was definitely pissed.

"You had someone following me, and you didn't tell me?" she demanded.

Okay, so clearly the whole idea that he could avoid a big dramatic scene by actually bringing her out here wasn't gonna work. Booth took a breath.

"I needed to know you were safe," he said.

"I'm safe, Booth!" she said in frustration. Mickey and Artie exchanged glances, standing back while they watched this go down – Artie a little amused, Mickey still starstruck.

She got herself under control, turning with an honestly regretful smile to Booth's friends. "I'm sorry – it was very nice to meet you. But I'm afraid I need to be going."

She turned on her heel and stalked out, leaving Booth to chase after her, waiting for the inevitable sound of a whip cracking from Artie. Sure enough, he was almost to the door when he heard it, echoing through the garage.

* * *

Bones didn't say a word on the way back to the house. Not a syllable, and she sure as hell didn't try to feel him up. She was out of the car before he'd even parked, stalking into the house; Booth was left to decide whether he really wanted to be the guy that was always chasing after his girl, apologizing for shit he honestly wasn't that sorry about. He took a second, then rolled his eyes. Got out of the car, and went after her.

She was halfway to the stairs when he got inside, her shirt on the living room floor and her jeans sliding down her ass.

Okay, definitely not what he'd expected.

"Listen, Bones – " he started, but she didn't even pause – stepped out of her jeans and left them there, and kept right on going toward the bedroom.

The way Booth figured it, he had two choices – leave her alone and maybe make it through the night, or follow her and try and figure out what the hell was going on in her head. And since one of those options involved a half-naked Bones, he decided that was the option he'd go with.

He got upstairs and there she was, just standing there in matching black bra and panties, her hands on her hips. She didn't look quite as pissed off as she had in the car, but she also didn't look like she was ready to move onto the make-up sex just yet. She did, however, look seriously fuckin' hot.

"Bones, would you just let me explain – "

She rolled her eyes. "Explain what, Booth? How you hired someone to follow me – to watch my every move over the past week, and then proceeded to lie to me – "

"Hey, I never lied – "

"A lie of omission, then," she said, her voice raised. She took a couple steps toward him, backing him up against the bed. When the mattress hit the backs of his legs, he sat down – not sure what was about to happen.

She lifted her right arm, and pointed to a scar just above her elbow.

"What do you see there?" she asked.

He didn't say anything for a second, honestly stumped. "Uh – your elbow, Bones?"

She shook her head. "Look closer." She pointed, and he felt a little twinge in his gut. "The scar from where you got shot earlier this year."

She nodded. "Exactly." She lowered her arm, then pulled her hair back and leaned toward him so he could see a tiny sliver of white he'd never noticed before, at the base of her skull.

"And this is from a razor – a boy from one of the foster homes cut me, late one night." She dropped her hair before he could comment, then planted her foot on the outside of his thigh so that he was trapped between her legs. She pointed to a perfectly round, pink scar behind her knee.

"Cigarette burn, from a soldier in Uzbekistan, when I was working to identify the bodies of one hundred men, women, and children slaughtered there."

He started to say something, but the look in her eye made it clear now wasn't the time. She put her foot back on the floor, and walked over to the closet. Rooted around for a minute before she returned carrying an old, faded tennis shoe. She dropped it on the bed beside him. Booth looked at it, then at her, hoping it wasn't what he thought it was.

"You remember Kelly Morris?" she asked.

He nodded. "The foster kid whose brother killed her boyfriend. Yeah, Bones, I remember." He picked up the sneaker, turned it over. "I asked if you had a list – like the kids we met. A list of the families who threw you out."

She held her head high, her jaw set, her eyes kind of shining. "Well, there it is," she said.

He ran his index finger over the names, written in faded black ink on the bottom of the shoe.

"Seven families in three years," she said. "I survived, Booth. I've survived all of those things, and a hell of a lot more. When I say I can take care of myself, it's not simply me being stubborn. I'm trained in martial arts, in using a firearm, I have a security clearance equal to yours. I can survive without you," she finished, but the last words sounded strangled – something so raw in them that Booth just stared at her, trying to figure out what the hell she was thinking.

There was no sign of tears now, nothing but hard edges and hard words. And all of a sudden, the whole thing seemed so ridiculous – he was sick of having to apologize for trying to keep her safe. For trying to teach Parker to be a good man. For doing his job well, and risking his life because it was the right thing to do. He stood up, took a step toward her.

"So why the hell aren't you using any of the fucking training you keep going on about while you're here?" he demanded. "Going into the woods after Mickey, with no one there for backup? With no clue what you were charging into? Fighting me instead of just getting the goddamn transmitter? Why are you going to Rachel Martin's old house? Why the _fuck _do you have this sneaker with you?" He was yelling now, as pissed as he'd been on the phone with her the other day.

"I mean, I'm assuming you don't just carry this thing with you wherever you go, right, Bones?" They stood nose to nose, and Bones didn't show any sign of backing down. Booth took a breath and a step back, his voice lower when he spoke again.

"You're too close to this, Temperance. Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Mickey – I should've said something. But I'm not gonna apologize for trying to keep you safe. I don't trust Washington, and you can't expect me to back down and just wait for something to happen – it's not what I do. Not with the people I care about."

She stared at him, still breathing kind of hard, still looking a little haunted by things Booth wished he could just erase for her. They stood that way for maybe a few seconds before he took a step toward her, reaching for her hand.

"Listen, Temperance," he started, but she seemed to come out of the spell then, all at once. Something unreadable crossed her face, and she backed away. Cold, all business.

"I need to get ready – I don't want to be late."

He dropped his hand to his side. "Right – yeah. Sure, Bones."

She went to her closet again, looking sort of dazed. Booth stood still for another second, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do now.

"I'm supposed to meet them at the restaurant at six, and then be at the auditorium by seven-thirty." Not looking at him, that rushed sound to her words, like she got when she felt like she'd lost control. She pulled a t-shirt over her head, and turned in the closet doorway. Fidgeted a little, but at least she was looking him in the eye.

"I probably won't be back before the reading. Will you – " she looked at the floor, shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "If you don't want to come now, I understand. It will probably be boring for you, anyway."

He rolled his eyes. Christ, this was insane. "Bones, I'm comin' to dinner, okay? And the reading." He went to her then, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Shifted so that she could look him in the eye. "You have to give me space, Booth. I know you're only trying to protect me, but you have to trust that I really do know what I'm doing."

He nodded, relieved beyond belief that she was talking to him again, that her voice was almost back to normal.

"I know. I just – it's the white knight syndrome, right? I'll learn to get over it. You're the most capable woman I've ever known, I just…" he hesitated, not quite able to let it go just yet. "I know you, Temperance – better than just about anyone, I know you." He ran a hand through her hair, leaned in and kissed her – hard, lost for a second in the taste of her mouth and the feel of her lips, in the way she met him halfway and didn't give an inch.

"You remember those brothers out at the medical clinic, back at Outward Bound?" he asked.

She looked at him curiously. "Of course. The ones who upset you so much."

He nodded. "Yeah – those are the ones. If this was a case with those boys, I wouldn't be able to see straight – you get that, right?"

A little skeptical, but she did nod. "This sounds very much like a psychology lesson, but yes – I get that. Because their situation too closely mirrors the one you and Jared experienced as children."

"See – exactly, Bones," he said triumphantly. "And if _that _were the case we were on, you'd be a little overprotective – right? You'd be watching my back, telling me to take it easy when I got too close to the edge."

"So, you're saying this is merely situational – you're being overprotective of me because you feel my judgment is clouded by my empathy for Rachel and Abby Martin."

He took a deep breath. "That's all I'm saying. We're partners, right? When I push things too far, you're the one who reins me in. You keep me honest, make sure I'm doing things on the up and up. And you've gotta trust me to do the same for you."

She hesitated. Cleared her throat. "I suppose I could do that."

He smiled again. Ran his thumb over her cheekbone before he leaned in and kissed her again.

"Now – do we have time for a little make-up sex, or is it really gonna take an hour and a half to get ready for this thing?" he asked.

She was too busy kissing him back to answer, but the way her hands started working his belt buckle was answer enough. Make up sex it was, then.

* * *

It turns out, Booth was nervous about dinner. Like butterflies in his stomach and iron in his gut nervous.

Not that there weren't reasons to be – he was meeting David Lethem, after all. And even though he and Bones weren't supposed to look like they were together, this was still technically their first big event as a couple. Other people might not know they were together, but Bones did – he didn't want to embarrass her by mispronouncing a name or ending a sentence with a preposition or something. Booth could charm the hell out of a lot of people and he knew it, but snobby white intellectuals? Yeah – that wasn't exactly his target demographic.

Still, he had his new black suit and his favorite shoes and his lucky socks, his sidearm safely holstered and a gorgeous woman on his arm. The night couldn't possibly be that bad.

At least, he hoped it couldn't be.

Bones wore a red dress. He really loved her in red – some women couldn't pull off wearing a color that screamed 'Look at me!' but it was no problem for Bones. He watched as she put a stack of note cards in her purse, looking him up and down in that way that he was fast learning meant he wouldn't be dressed much longer.

"We've gotta go, Bones," he said, steering her toward the door.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I know. But wouldn't you rather…?"

"Hell, yeah, I'd rather. But sorry, Bones, Lethem's waiting for me. I can't disappoint the man."

In the car, she fidgeted with her notecards and looked out the window and fidgeted some more. She fidgeted so much, in fact, that he forgot all about his own anxiety on the drive to the restaurant, focusing instead on hers.

"Bones, you're gonna do great," he said.

"I know that," she said impatiently. He got the feeling that she was more impatient with herself than him, though, so he let it slide.

"So, why are you nervous?"

"I don't know," she said – honestly puzzled, trying to figure it out. "I've done readings to larger audiences than the one tonight, and conducted seminars on much more complex topics."

"But you're still nervous," he said.

She nodded. Went quiet, while he drove on. Finally, when he was parking the car in a way-too-fancy-for-his-taste restaurant in something Bones called the Pearl District, she took a deep breath. Like she was about to make some huge revelation.

"I'm reading from my new book," she told him, like this was something significant.

He nodded. "Yeah, I figured – kind of give everyone a sneak peek before spring."

A second or two passed, while he waited for her to get to the point.

"It's not like what I've written in the past. I mean – it is, because it's still a Kathy Reichs novel. But just remember that it's fiction," she told him seriously.

"Ah," he said. So, there it was. "So, you're reading one of the big Kathy-and-Andy scenes, huh?" he guessed.

She nodded. Chewed on her lip for a second, until he leaned across the seat and kissed her.

"It's just fiction, Bones. I know."

She smiled a little at that, sighing in relief. She got out of the car before he could open the door for her, which was something he would've done for just about any other woman on the planet. But Bones was out of the car and on her way into the restaurant before Booth had even managed to get past the conversation or the intimacy or the fact that, yeah, he was dating Temperance Brennan.

Unfuckingbelievable.

The restaurant was busy when they got there. Dimly lit, filled with people who gave off an unmistakable money vibe. Booth ignored his discomfort, and settled into the role he'd learned from years of sucking up to politicians and generals and all those other high-ups who just lived to press the flesh of the common folk.

Bones led the way to a long rectangular table at the back of the restaurant, where an older woman was frantically waving to them.

"That's Mrs. Llewellyn," she told him under her breath. "She and her husband host the conference each year."

Booth nodded, taking in the rest of the faces as they approached the table. He recognized some of them from the pictures Mickey had sent – Jamie Crankshaw, Jason Farnham, Rebecca Woolrich, and Caleb of course, from meeting him the night before. Senator Woolrich was sitting beside her son, wearing a bright fuchsia business suit and enough perfume to drown an elephant.

Booth also recognized David Lethem from the pictures he'd seen on the man's dust jackets – he was smaller than Booth had expected, probably five-ten, but lean and toned. Booth was comfortable enough with his sexuality to admit that, yeah, he had kind of a guy crush on the man. Really, who wouldn't? The writer was a legend – racecar driver, marksman, world traveler. And, he spun some of the best fiction Booth had ever read. With the exception, of course, of Bones.

A tall, thin man sat at the head of the table. He stood up when they got there and shook Bones's hand warmly, kissing her cheek.

"Temperance – so glad you could make it."

She smiled, with no trace of the anxiety she'd been showing in the car.

"Nice to see you, Philip. This is my partner, Special Agent Seeley Booth. Booth, Doctor Philip Taylor. Booth flew out for some business, and I thought I'd invite him along. I hope you don't mind."

The man shook his head quickly, extending his hand to Booth. "Of course not, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Booth shook his hand, smiling politely. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Taylor."

Dr. Taylor showed them to their seats, putting Booth in between Bones and Mrs. Llewellyn, who was at the opposite end of the table. Bones introduced him to everyone, and he quickly committed the names to memory and shook hands before sitting down. The only one he didn't recognize was TJ Wright – who was apparently one of Bones's students, and a buddy of Caleb. TJ sat opposite Booth, between Mrs. Llewellyn and Jamie, definitely doing his part to keep the conversation lively.

Jason Farnham was two seats down from Brennan, who was sitting between David Lethem and Booth. Booth noticed how Farnham not only tried to monopolize the conversation with some of the most outrageous fucking lies he'd ever heard, but every time Bones started to talk, the guy would either talk over her or finish her sentences. If it was anyone else, Booth would have said something, but he mostly just felt sorry for the man. When Temperance had had enough, Farnham would definitely know it.

Through most of dinner, Mrs. Llewellyn was creeping a little closer to Booth's seat. She was probably in her seventies, wearing a pretty, long black gown, making no attempt to dye her white hair or cover her wrinkles. She was tiny, with a rich, low voice and one of those laughs that made everyone stop what they were doing to figure out what was so damned funny. Booth liked her immediately, though if she kept moving her chair closer as the night wore on, she'd end up in his lap before they got to dessert.

"So, Agent Booth," Mrs. Llewellyn started on again, diverting his attention from the other fifteen conversations happening at the table. "You must have some amazing stories – when can we expect to see you in print?"

He rolled his eyes, gave her a little grin. "Oh, I'm pretty sure that'll never happen. That's Temperance's area, not mine."

"Well, regardless, you must have some truly spine-chilling tales."

Bones was deep in a conversation with Lethem that he was dying to hear, but obviously that wasn't an option. He smiled politely.

"It gets exaggerated," he told her. "I mean – really, it's just a lot of paperwork and research. Most of the crime solving gets done in the lab nowadays."

Bones came to at that, looking totally appalled. "We do a great deal of crime solving. You don't find our work exciting?"

Suddenly, everyone's eyes were on the two of them – though of course Bones was totally focused on him, and their conversation.

"Not like on TV, they're not," he insisted. "I mean, really – we just do our jobs, right?"

She wrinkled her forehead. "I think our lives are very exciting. What about the time you were kidnapped by the man with one leg – "

Okay, anyone who wasn't paying attention before was now officially on the edge of their seat. He smiled, trying to get her to settle down.

"Well, yeah, Bones – that was an exciting couple of days. But it's not like it happens all the time."

"What about the Epps case? Or the Grave Digger? Those were both highly intriguing. Objectively speaking, I'd say our lives are far from boring, Booth."

He grinned, ignoring the eyes on them for the moment. "You're right – sorry. Geez, Bones. Our lives are a thrill a minute."

She smiled triumphantly. "Thank you."

Lethem kind of laughed at that. "Well, I guess we know whose the boss on this team," he said, but the way he said it made it pretty clear he didn't mind a woman in the driver's seat. In fact, he didn't really say it to Booth at all – watching Bones in a way that made the agent suddenly not quite so keen on the guy as he'd been before. Watching her, in fact, like Booth didn't even exist.

Once the food arrived, things got a little more orderly. There was a lot of booze flowing at that point, though Booth stuck with water and Bones just had a glass of wine. Jamie, Farnham, and Lethem all seemed to be in some kind of contest, however, and the Llewellyns were definitely doing their part to keep up.

About halfway through dinner, Lethem excused himself to use the john, and before he'd even gotten clear of his chair, Farnham took his place. The man leaned in to Bones, muttering something Booth couldn't quite hear. He tensed, waiting to see how Bones would handle him.

"We're fine, Jason – don't worry about it," she told him, keeping her own voice low.

Booth noticed that the rest of the table was watching the exchange, too, clearly just as uneasy as he was.

"I just wish we'd gotten off on a better foot," Farnham continued, his voice getting a little louder.

Booth expected her to level the guy right there, but she managed to keep her temper. She gave him a gracious – though clearly strained – smile, moving farther away from him.

"We're fine," she repeated. "Now, perhaps you should go back to your seat and finish your meal." She didn't say, 'Before I kick your ass,' but it was definitely implied.

There was a tense second of silence around the table before Dr. Taylor got up and kind of patted Farnham on the back.

"Come on, Jay – how about we go outside for a minute or two. It's about time for a smoke, don't you think?"

Once he was gone, Bones turned to Booth and rolled her eyes. He reached under the table and squeezed her knee, then watched as a faint flush climbed her cheeks.

Yep, he was definitely dating Temperance Brennan.

* * *

Booth ducked out early with apologies all around, so he could meet Mickey and Artie at the auditorium. There were a lot of people milling around when he got there, which meant it was no problem to get in and check out the seating and the layout of the place. It was a pretty standard setup – seating capacity of just over five hundred, so it was hardly huge. There were a couple of people already setting up cameras for the night, including a gorgeous, six foot tall blonde that Artie grinned at, stopping just before they passed her by.

"Elsa, this is Seeley Booth," he said.

She smiled widely. She was one of those women who was striking because, if she hadn't been gorgeous, she might have actually been kind of ugly – her nose a little too big, her smile a little too wide, that kind of thing. But between the confidence, the spark in her eyes, and that body… Booth wasn't in the market, but he still knew gorgeous when he saw it.

"Nice to meet you, Elsa. So, you're manning the cameras tonight, huh?"

She kept smiling, and looked at Artie blankly. Artie rattled something off in what sounded like German, and she nodded quickly in response. Rattled something back, then returned to adjusting the focus and checking the sound on the camera.

"So, she knows what we're looking for?" Booth asked.

Artie kind of laughed. "_We_ don't even know what we're looking for, Seel. But yeah – she'll get it done. I told her we want a lot of crowd shots. So, that's what we'll get. Guaranteed."

Booth nodded, checking the entrances and exits – three in the back, two in the front. Mickey showed up a couple minutes later, still carrying that book he was hoping to get Bones to sign.

He whistled a little when he saw Booth.

"Wow… Now that's a pretty package, my friend."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Sorry, I'm taken, Mick. You seen Washington anywhere?"

Mickey shook his head quickly, looking around. "Nope – he supposed to be here?"

Yeah, he was definitely supposed to be here. Before long, people were filing in and Booth had no choice but to go sit down – still with no sign of the agent that was supposed to be covering this thing. Booth felt his chest get a little tighter, a combination of frustration and anger and definitely some serious concern, over leaving the case in Washington's hands when he headed back to D.C.

Bones had reserved a seat up front for Booth, and a few minutes later Booth found himself surrounded by the crowd from the restaurant – Jamie and Caleb on one side of him, David Lethem on the other, the Llewellyns seated behind him.

Senator Woolrich was actually reading first that night. Booth looked over with interest at the man sitting beside Caleb. He was a little taller and more filled out, but the two were almost definitely brothers. Doug Murray, he realized, that tension he'd felt earlier beginning to ratchet up a notch at a time.

Woolrich told a couple of writerly anecdotes that got polite laughs, then read for almost half an hour from her book – which was about all the things she'd accomplished back in the 1800s, or whenever the hell she'd first started out in politics. Booth kept watching her sons for their reactions – Doug seemed mesmerized, but Caleb was writing in a notebook the whole time, and barely looked up. Occasionally, he'd whisper something to Jamie, who would laugh quietly – Booth tried to figure out whether they were already sleeping together, or just on the cusp. Neither of the men showed any obvious signs of being psychopaths – their eyes didn't start glowing, and they didn't start foaming at the mouth every time their mother told a bad joke or anything, but it was still an interesting thing to watch.

Bones was sitting in a chair at the back of the stage, with Doctor Taylor and some people Booth didn't recognize. He hoped to God not all of them were planning on reading before she got up there. Once Woolrich was done, there was a ten-minute smoking-and-stretching break before people returned to their seats, and Bones was up.

Doctor Taylor introduced her, with a quick, funny story about Bones making a student cry during workshop by telling him he was a terrible writer, then getting him a job at the Jeffersonian to make up for it. Then Bones took center stage, standing behind the podium in her red dress, and Booth was actually probably more nervous for her than she was for herself. Honest to God, he didn't know how she did it.

She smiled, though, looking like she'd been doing this her whole life.

She started out with a story about some tribe in South America that had everyone laughing for a good five minutes, then got serious. For the first time, she actually did look nervous. She glanced down at her notes, then back up at the audience.

"I was instructed by my publisher to read this particular excerpt this evening, which she informs me is a departure from what I've written in the past."

She cleared her throat, took a sip of water. Shuffled some pages, and looked back down at the podium. "In this section, my main character, Kathy Reichs, has just learned of her partner's death."

Booth looked up at that, searching her face. She didn't look at him – or anywhere near him, actually, keeping her eyes centered on the crowd while she continued.

"I of course can't tell you how the book ends – because then you wouldn't buy it, which would make my agent, publisher, and publicist all very unhappy with me. But, I can tell you how it begins."

Booth listened, spellbound, as she read. Her publicist wasn't kidding – it was nothing like any of the stuff she'd written before, at least that Booth had read. It was raw, and powerful, and so intimate that Booth felt like he was getting his first real glimpse at what her life had been like for those two weeks when she thought he was dead. There was one part that caught him, and he couldn't seem to shake it.

"She couldn't help but believe, somehow, that if they had never carried things beyond their partnership, this would all be easier. If Andy Listor had remained merely the man with whom she worked, sharing the occasional meal or perhaps the rare furtive glance, she could survive his death. No one died simply because their partner had – policemen, firefighters, agents worldwide lost partners everyday. They moved on.

"But now that she'd taken him to her bed, obliterated the line he himself had drawn, it seemed to Kathy that her fate was sealed. Partners were lost, and those they left behind survived. Lovers were lost, and life was never the same."

Booth sat there, silent, while she finished – thinking over and over of what she'd said that day: _I can survive without you, Booth. _Like she was trying to convince herself, more than him. Somewhere about halfway through, he started getting choked up, but managed to hold it together while she finished.

Once she had, the place exploded with applause and everyone was on their feet. She gave a sort of fretful smile, and he saw it when she glanced his way, then quickly looked away.

There was no getting near her afterward, with way too many fans and students and faculty surrounding her. And just when he was starting to get a little closer, his cell buzzed in his pocket – he glanced at the display, and swore under his breath. Answered brusquely, heading for the back of the auditorium.

"Angela – what's up?"

"How's Portland?" she asked, a little too cheery. Something about her voice told him there was definitely a problem.

"Good. Is that why you're calling?"

"Not by a long shot," Hodgins said. Great – now he was on speaker with the Dynamic Duo, and it looked like Bones was about to get carried away by her fan club.

"Why, what's the problem?" He backed up out of the aisle, keeping one eye on Bones to make sure she didn't cut out without him.

"I found him," Angela said, clearly proud of herself. "I just started thinking – if this was me, where would I go? And obviously it's not to class – I mean, come on. So I started going over the possibilities, and it just came to me."

"Well, you mind speedin' up the process for me? What just came to you?"

"The Hirshhorn – I mean, seriously, I can't believe I didn't think of it before."

Booth shook his head. "Wait – you found the witness? How do you know it was him?"

"He looked _exactly _the way I imagined him – "

"Yeah, that and he was painting the exact same crappy half-boat thing that we found in his backpack," Hodgins added.

"Well, yeah, okay – that helped. But the point is, we've got him."

The crowd was thinning, and he noticed that Bones was kind of scanning the faces now, looking for him. But Angela's words caught him, pulling him back into the conversation.

"Wait – what do you mean, you've got him? You mean you got a picture of him, did the ID, and left so I can take care of it when I get back. Right?"

Nothing, for a second or more.

"_Right, _Angela?" Booth asked again, his voice rising.

"Well – yeah, I mean, except for that last part. I just thought that since you're in Oregon and, Booth, he's such a sweetie. And he's terrified."

"Angela, where the hell is my witness?"

"Getting stoned in my garage at the moment, actually," Hodgins answered dryly.

Booth's eyes went wide. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked, lowering his voice when he realized people were starting to stare. "You brought him to Hodgins' place? Do you know how dangerous these guys are?"

"They don't even know he exists, though, right?" Angela insisted. "And there was no way I could just leave Terry there, freaking out that way."

"Terry?"

"Terence O'Brien the Third," Hodgins said. "Skinny little twenty-year-old punk with delusions of Picasso."

"Shit," Booth said, more to himself than anyone else.

He looked around again, waving to Bones just as he saw Farnham start approaching her. This time, Bones didn't look amused – there was still a line of people surrounding her, but she got that tunnel-vision look she got with Booth sometimes that meant she wasn't playing nice anymore.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something that made everything else seem like background noise, and set the case on its ear.

"Listen, I need to go," he said into the phone. "I'll call you later. Don't let him out of the garage, and don't let anyone in. _Anyone_. I'll send someone to get him in the morning."

He hung up, his eyes still locked on the two men standing together at the entrance, talking quietly. Washington had cleaned up since Booth had seen him in his apartment – he was wearing a suit, clean-shaven and ready for action. And beside him, with Washington's hand resting comfortably on his shoulder, was Mickey Sixx.

Booth stood there, frozen for a long minute or two, watching the exchange. They were off to the side, more in the lobby than the auditorium, which was probably why they thought they were safe. But suddenly, Booth understood how Washington had known everything that was going on without Mickey seeing a damned thing. It seemed Mickey had found himself a new side to play on.

He was still trying to decide whether to confront them then or wait until later, when there was a commotion down by the stage. A man's voice – Farnham, he recognized immediately, and some other people shouting at the same time. He was halfway down the aisle when he saw Bones land the punch that caught Farnham just under the eye and sent him sprawling. Booth winced.

Yeah, he'd seen that coming.

* * *

After all the excitement, Booth and Bones skipped the party that night, and were home by ten. Booth made a quick call to Artie, not quite sure if he could trust his old friend or not, but after the conversation he thought it was probably only Mickey working with Washington. Then, he called Angela back and told her it was safest for them to keep Terry the Wonder Witness under lock and key until he got back. And then, he hung up the phone. Climbed the stairs to the bedroom, feeling strangely at home in the little house he'd been in for just under twenty-four hours now, and peered in to find Bones sleeping soundly beneath a pile of grisly files.

He quietly set them down on the floor, and smiled a little when she opened her eyes.

"How's the hand, champ?" he asked.

She flexed it, rolling her eyes. "Fine. Not broken, just slightly swollen."

He grinned, and stripped down to his boxers before climbing into bed beside her. He took her hand in his and tenderly kissed each of her bruised knuckles. She curled into him like that's where she belonged, laying her head against his shoulder.

"You were great tonight, Bones," he said.

She laughed a little. "You mean when I bared my soul to an audience of five-hundred, or when I punched out an aging pathological liar with a drinking problem?"

He chuckled. "Um… Do I have to pick one or the other?"

"I suppose not," she said, quieter now. She propped herself up on her elbow, looking at him intently. He brushed the hair from her forehead, and didn't look away when their eyes met.

"I think I'm in love with you," she said. Very quiet, now.

Booth nodded. The moment didn't surprise him the way he thought it would. "I know," he said. He studied her face, the way everything played out in her blue, blue eyes. "Is that okay?"

She thought about it for a few seconds. "I suppose it has to be," she finally said.

He kissed her then, loving the way she moved, the way she felt, the way she somehow made him feel like the man he'd always been and someone a thousand times better, all at once.

"Well, Bones, it's about time you caught up," he whispered roughly in her ear, smiling again at that intake of breath when he hit another sweet spot. "'Cause I've been in love with you for years."

There were still a thousand things to be done, a million questions to be answered. There were killers to catch and witnesses to protect, there was the issue of Mickey Sixx's betrayal and just how tightly that was wound into the Lady Killer case… There were two mysterious brothers who seemed to be at the heart of a dozen brutal deaths, and an aging pathological liar with a drinking problem and a swollen jaw who, Booth had a nagging suspicion, wasn't just gonna go away.

Bones kissed him – his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, and finally his mouth, breathing him in like he was the only air she'd ever need. He pushed all the dark thoughts aside, wrapped himself around her and nipped at every sweet spot he could find. The case would wait.

Bones, it seemed, wouldn't have to.

TBC

* * *

**_All right - now we're really rolling. Next chapter we're back in Brennan's pretty head, so stay tuned. Don't forget to leave your thoughts, and thanks as always for reading! _**

**_- Jen_**

**_A/N - Just wanted to give an update on when the next chapter will be up, as I'm running way behind this week. The next chapter will be up Wednesday, April 8, and I'll be back on schedule with at least one update a week up to the concluding chapter, which will be posted by the beginning of May. We're on our way, kids... Just, you know, not 'til Wednesday. Sorry!_**


	9. Chapter 9

_Okay - I know, super long wait for this chapter. I think we're back on schedule now, however... Which means two chapters a week 'til this puppy is done, with the next chapter coming on Wednesday. A few people have asked how many chapters there will be, and it looks like seventeen, as far as I can tell right now. Thanks for all your patience and kind words, and here we go... Let's get back to it, shall we?_

* * *

**SATURDAY**

Brennan had always been an active lover – a vocal, enthusiastic partner who enjoyed both the give and the take of the sex act. She made no apologies for that, and certainly had never gotten any complaints. Why, then, did she feel as though she'd been robbed of both words and free will, that first time with Booth? He'd taken over, and she had honestly been more than willing to let him.

When she was dating Michael, he'd always seemed to view sex in much the same way he viewed everything in life – as yet one more skill to master. Being good in bed was merely another thing to add to his CV, another sport at which he excelled. Both he and Brennan were well-versed in the mechanics, which meant sex was always technically superb. If they lacked an emotional connection, Brennan certainly never complained. And, to be fair, neither did Michael.

There were other lovers along the way, of course, though Brennan had a knack for avoiding long-term, monogamous entanglements. When she began seeing Sully, she hadn't anticipated just how much she would actually, well… _like _him. But she did like Sully. She liked laughing with him, liked spending time with him, liked the things he did to her and the way he responded to the things she did to him. Sex with him was always vigorous, filled with laughter and exploration, but ultimately when their eyes met and his gaze held just a shade too long, she was invariably the one to turn away.

There was no turning away from Booth, however – no way to pretend they were simply satisfying a biological urge, no matter how hard she tried. He called her pretty; held her eye when he said it, shy and sweet and completely in the moment. She didn't know what to say to that – and for the first time in her life, she found herself biting her tongue. Terrified, suddenly, of the words that might escape her lips, if she just let herself go.

The next morning, she woke early and watched him sleep – something she used to mock Sully for, when they were together.

"It's what people do, Tempe," Sully had said to her once, when she told him she found it unnerving to wake and find him staring at her. He didn't finish the sentence, didn't add, _When they're in love,_ but she'd sensed the implication. It had seemed absurd at the time, wasting a perfectly good half-hour doing nothing but gazing at an unconscious lover.

And yet, here she was. Watching Booth sleep.

She wondered if she should be thinking of him as Seeley now – if this single act was enough to make him a different person to her, the man who was her partner suddenly gone. Replaced by someone else entirely, someone who called her pretty and performed incredible oral sex in the shower, who snored in her bed and stole all her blankets.

Someone who was inexplicably fascinating to her, even in sleep.

It wasn't as though all she was doing was staring at him, though. Not at all, actually.

In fact, Brennan was studying.

While Booth did indeed snore, it didn't appear that he had any trace of apnea – his breathing patterns were even, with no detectible disturbances. Which was good; she'd investigated a number of cases in which people simply stopped breathing in their sleep, and never started again.

Booth wouldn't do that, at least.

His heartbeat was strong. His pulse was regular. His color was good, though she'd noted dark circles under his eyes when he'd arrived the night before, and he looked more tired than she'd ever seen him.

While he slept, she took an informal inventory of his body – counting scars and visualizing bones, thinking of his back problems and his knee problems, the numerous aches and pains she knew plagued him from his active lifestyle. She ran a hand over his phallus – thicker than she remembered from that glimpse in the bath, and highly responsive to her touch. She removed her hand when he stirred, though she could feel herself moistening, wanting very much to wake him and have sex again before showering and getting on with her day.

Instead, she let him sleep – another difference from the Temperance she'd always been. The Temperance of old would never have stopped after that first time Friday night; they would have been awake until morning. She would have been loud, directive, and when they finally slept, it would have been out of sheer exhaustion.

She didn't know what to do with the new Temperance.

She got out of bed when the temptation of a naked Booth beside her became too much, and took her cell phone downstairs with her. It would be almost eight o'clock in D.C. – which wasn't actually an acceptable time to call Angela on a Saturday morning, she knew, but suddenly she just wanted to hear her friend's voice. There was something about talking to Angela that made everything less overwhelming, somehow – she had a remarkable ability to put things into perspective, whenever Brennan felt as though she was failing to do that herself.

It took several rings before Angela finally answered, but Brennan was grateful when she finally did.

"Why are you calling me instead of screwing the pants off that gorgeous partner of yours?" Angela asked, immediately upon answering.

"Technically, I think it's customary to begin a conversation with hello," Brennan responded dryly.

"Yeah, you're definitely the one to lecture me on social customs, Bren. So – he's there, right? He showed up, swept you off your feet, you made mad, passionate love all night? Because that's definitely the way it played out in my head like a million times since yesterday."

Brennan couldn't help but smile, realizing unexpectedly just how much she'd missed her friend over the past week.

"He's here. And while I don't know if I would necessarily use your phrasing to describe the course of events, I suppose you're not completely off board."

"Base, sweetie," Angela corrected her, laughing in delight at Brennan's admission. When she spoke again, her tone deepened unconsciously – the way it always did when the artist talked about sex.

"He was good, right? I mean – some guys look like they'd blow your mind, and then you take them to bed and it's like they've never seen a breast before, forget finding the g-spot. But, Booth… He's got that big-belt-buckle, sensuous hands, steamy-eyed thing… Come on, Bren – you know what I'm talking about."

Brennan laughed, unable to stop herself from grinning outright. "Frighteningly enough, I think I do. And to answer your question – he was good." She paused, returning to the confidence of his touch, the taste of his skin, the way he seemed to read her body the same way he'd been reading her mind for the past four years. She sighed, unconscious of the fact until the sound escaped her.

"He was really, very good."

"Oh, hon – I'm so happy for you guys."

There was a pause on the line, which Brennan naturally had difficulty deciphering – she had a hard enough time when people were actually speaking, so meaningful silences continued to be something of an enigma.

"Are you still there?" she finally prompted.

Angela sniffled. Which meant she was either crying, or she was perhaps having trouble with summer allergies – which Brennan knew had been an issue in the past.

"Ange?"

The other woman laughed – which meant she was definitely crying, Brennan decided. She'd heard Angela laugh through her tears many times before.

"Sorry, sweetie – I'm just… happy." Except she suddenly didn't sound happy at all.

"I'm sorry I haven't called sooner," Brennan told her regretfully.

"No – I know you're busy, and it's been pretty crazy here, too. Things are just a little… I don't know. It doesn't matter – I'm just happy you guys are together."

Brennan recalled Booth telling her how quiet Angela had seemed all week – 'off' was his word for it. She certainly seemed off now.

"Is everything all right with Hodgins? Did you break up again?"

"No – we're fine, Bren. Really. Things are just… complicated right now. I think I'm just having a hard time getting back to all the death and violence, after our shiny, happy week in the woods with everyone."

"You'll get used to it again, Ange," Brennan told her, attempting to be reassuring.

Angela laughed, but Brennan thought she detected a certain bitterness in her voice. "Yeah – I guess that's what I'm afraid of."

They spoke for another few minutes, but Angela seemed remote for the remainder of the conversation. When they hung up, Brennan felt even less connected to the Jeffersonian than she had before. She checked on Booth again, who was still sleeping soundly, and took a quick shower before she went in to get dressed for morning workshops.

When she returned for her clothes, Booth was just waking up.

"Come back to bed," he told her.

It wasn't something she had to be told twice.

She felt more confident the second time they had sex. Less unnerved by their proximity, by his eyes, by her lack of control every time he touched her. She told him he'd lost weight – and he had, it was clear even before he'd taken his clothes off the night before. She traced his scars, listening to the stories they told because she knew he would never volunteer those stories himself. Took him into her mouth – something she both enjoyed and was quite skilled at – and selfishly acquiesced to his plea that she stop only because she suddenly, desperately wanted to feel him inside her once more.

Afterward, he held her against his chest and she listened to his heartbeat again – erratic but not unusually so, given their recent activity.

"So, tell me again why you can't skip out and stay in bed all day?" he asked her, tangling his fingers in her hair. She liked the way his voice sounded in his chest, and made no move to raise her head when she answered.

"Because I made a commitment to the workshops. And I'm supposed to be luring a serial killer out of hiding. And, regardless of how merited we might think it is, I'm doubtful that Washington would find the excuse, 'I wanted to stay in bed and have sex with my partner all day,' a valid reason to toss the ball."

"Drop the ball, Bones." He sighed. "But tomorrow you don't have workshops, right? We can just, you know, hang out?"

He made circles and figure eights on her shoulder with his index finger, sending the occasional chill up her spine.

"I thought we could work on the case," she said immediately. "Since I have no obligations at the conference, we can review files – maybe even meet with Washington, if you'd like."

He laid a line of kisses from her mandible to her ear. "Yeah, that'd be great. But, you know…" he nuzzled closer, managing to find exactly the right spot behind her ear with his teeth. "We can also sleep in, right? Have breakfast in bed, take a walk in the park?"

"Have more sex?" she inquired innocently.

She felt him smile against her skin, his hand sweeping up her side to caress her breast. "Well, if you insist."

She ran her hand up his thigh, brushing lightly against his already-hardening member. For a human male closer to forty than thirty, Booth had an impressively short refractory period.

"I have to go," she told him.

He flipped them both over, pinning her to the bed and pressing himself against her thigh. Lowering his mouth to the one of the countless 'sweet spots' he'd made it his job to discover in the past twelve hours, he mumbled something virtually unintelligible against her skin.

She laughed, sounding distinctly breathless as she bucked her hips against him, responding yet again to his touch.

"I have no idea what you just said."

He lifted his head briefly before returning to take her breast in his mouth, raking his teeth across her sensitized nipple. "You can be late."

She didn't disagree.

* * *

Which meant she didn't get to the Llewellyn Estate that morning until almost nine o'clock, still trying to adjust the damned tracking device in her ear as she walked through the door. And while she was undeniably sated, she was still late. Naturally, Farnham was on time for the first time that week, and actually had the nerve to look put out when she flew through the door just two minutes before the workshop was scheduled to begin. He was wearing the same outfit he'd been wearing all week long – khakis with sandals, hat, pink writer t-shirt... She'd come to loathe that shirt, but even his condescending glare and his asinine t-shirt couldn't touch her good mood.

Caleb already had the room set up, and there were still students missing when she arrived. Nevertheless, Farnham raised his eyebrows at her as he handed her a manila folder, as though she'd somehow prevented them from starting.

"Thanks for joining us, Temperance – I trust we didn't take you away from anything too important this morning."

"What are these?" she asked, refusing to be baited into yet another pointless, petty argument.

"Evaluations. Since this is our last workshop together, the students will need to fill one out… And we both have an instructor eval we'll need to complete."

Hmm. So, she'd have an opportunity to evaluate him – she couldn't deny a certain sense of satisfaction at the thought.

"Usually at the end of workshops, we'll wrap things up about ten minutes before the end of the session and then give everyone that last few minutes to fill out the eval," Caleb volunteered.

"Does that work for you?" Farnham asked, the implication clearly being that she had been difficult about these types of decisions in the past.

Once again, she refrained from making any kind of retort. For the past week, she and Farnham had had at least one major altercation per workshop, but that was behind her – she simply had to get through the next four hours without losing her temper. After that, she would never have to have another conversation with Jason Farnham again.

Surely, she could make it four hours.

She smiled pleasantly. "That sounds very practical."

Farnham looked surprised at her tone, but said nothing more as he took his seat at the opposite end of the table.

TJ arrived just after she had, sitting down in his customary seat to her left while Brennan went through her manuscripts and attempted to get organized. For the first time since the week had begun, the writer failed to come through the door with an armory of quips and thinly veiled innuendo. It wasn't until she watched him anxiously crossing out lines and jotting down margin notes on his manuscript that she realized why.

"We'll proceed today the same way we have throughout the week – Jess's manuscript will be before the break, and then we'll do your critique last," she informed him, though she was sure he knew quite well when he would be critiqued.

He nodded regardless. "Sounds good."

He didn't look like it sounded good at all, however. Brennan resisted the urge to reassure the man, though TJ's manuscript was the only one she'd read all week that showed any promise whatsoever. In fact, TJ's manuscript showed so much promise that Brennan had already made a tentative call to her agent – something she'd never even considered with the other pieces she'd read.

She hated to admit it, but in this particular instance, Farnham had been correct – the week would have been much better if they'd started critiques with a manuscript like TJ's. It would have provided a yardstick against which the other writers could measure themselves, and a tangible example of what good writing looked like. And while normally Brennan would have no problem admitting when she was wrong about something, she found herself undeniably reluctant to concede to Farnham.

The first half of the workshop went relatively smoothly. They critiqued a manuscript revolving around a series of murders at a carnival, written by one of the few women in the group. Brennan did her best to maintain a positive outlook, however ultimately she did seem to upset the woman when she questioned the fact that those conducting the investigation thought six murders in the same carnival in a two week period was neither excessive nor potentially related. And forensically speaking, the investigative team would have realized the murder weapon belonged to the sword swallower by the second autopsy, unless they were completely incompetent. And unless one had superhuman strength, it was physically impossible to decapitate three victims with a single blow, regardless of how sharp the blade might be.

When she had finished, Farnham raised an eyebrow at her.

"Anything else?"

She started to say no, then added impulsively, "I appreciated how you used smaller margins and both sides of the page to conserve paper. Very environmentally conscious of you."

She stopped. Everyone was looking at her except Jess, the young woman whose manuscript she'd just reviewed.

"So, Jess – your writing's crap, but way to go on saving the planet," Farnham said dryly. "I've got a few things to add, if you don't mind."

Brennan nodded, still watching Jess. Farnham said a great deal about how her plot was original and her characters seemed multi-dimensional. Which, after some consideration, Brennan had to admit was true. Why hadn't she seen that? Why was she so blind to the merits of her students' work, intent on focusing only on inconsistencies and shortcomings?

After Jess's critique, they did a brief question and answer section about different writing related topics – which always seemed to come back to the students asking Brennan how they could improve their credibility and get an agent, and Brennan explaining that they might consider going to medical school and getting an actual career instead of writing about other people's. Which never seemed to go over well.

They took their customary cigarette and coffee break at eleven-thirty, at which point Brennan asked Jess to remain behind for a moment. She wasn't certain what she wanted to say, but she was tired of seeing that same world-weary defeat in her students' eyes after withstanding one of her critiques.

"Jason was correct about your characters – they were very well formed," Brennan finally began.

Jess had dark hair and large, dark eyes. She was quite small in stature – perhaps five foot two, thin and serious. Younger than many of the others at the conference, likely no more than twenty or twenty-one. Brennan hesitated again, not content with what little she'd said.

"I haven't taught a conference like this before," she tried to explain. "I'm accustomed to students working in the hard sciences – there are right answers and wrong answers. Nothing is subjective. Here, I believe I'm focusing on the quantitative aspects of the manuscripts – a sword can't cut through three bodies in one blow; people's hearts don't literally explode…" She paused. "Unless, of course, an individual explodes from a bomb blast, in which case the heart may explode with the rest of the body."

She frowned. She was losing her focus – saying all of this badly.

"It's all right, Dr. Brennan," Jess finally said.

Brennan tried to determine whether the student was merely placating her. She couldn't know for sure, of course, but she seemed sincere.

"I'm simply telling the truth, as I see it."

Jess nodded. "We all get that, I think. You and Jason have a good balance going – you know, the whole good cop/bad cop thing? You tell us the stuff that needs to be fixed – no matter how much stuff that might be." Brennan smiled faintly at the girl's dryly humorous tone. "And then Jason tells us where we went right. It's a balancing act – we all know that."

Brennan nodded, content with this estimation. So, she apparently wasn't ruining anyone's life – not that this was necessarily her concern. Certainly she felt badly that her students seemed to take her feedback so personally, but they shouldn't have asked her opinion if they hadn't truly wanted to hear it. To be perfectly honest, the thing that bothered her the most about this entire workshop was the fact that Farnham was more adept at the critiques than she was. His feedback was more constructive, his perspective more informed, and his manner more engaging. She didn't care that Farnham was better liked than she was; she cared very much that he was better at their job, however.

The other students returned and sat down a short time later, trailing their customary cigarette smell. TJ looked painfully nervous – more so than any of the students Brennan had critiqued all week, which struck her as ludicrous since his work was so exemplary. Farnham came in after everyone else, leisurely popping a stick of chewing gum in his mouth before he looked at her.

"Would you like to kick things off with Mr. Wright, Temperance?"

She nodded, hesitating for just a moment as she decided how to begin.

"At first glance, the plot in your piece seems slightly contrived," she finally started, though technically she knew she was supposed to start with something positive.

His story revolved around a serial killing surgeon who murdered his victims by injecting them with a neurotoxin that replicated the symptoms of an airborne virus. TJ nodded, jotting something down in his notes.

"However, I believe that your writing style and the accuracy of your details make the story quite plausible. You have an engaging tone, and the attention you've given to the procedural aspects of the story are impressive."

She paused. TJ smiled hesitantly, waiting for her to continue.

"I honestly had a difficult time finding areas in need of improvement," she finally confessed. "Do you have a medical background? Your details regarding the physiology of the victim and the fluctuations in the neurochemistry of her brain following the overdose were flawless."

TJ's smile grew wider. "Did you want me to answer that?"

Technically, students were supposed to remain silent during their critiques, unless directed otherwise. Brennan nodded, giving him her permission to address the question.

"Uh – yeah, I don't actually have any medical training. Or, not much – I worked in a hospital for a while, a few years back, so I picked up some of it from being there. And a friend of mine's a doctor – I got a lot of the details from him. And from looking things up online, you know how it goes." He hesitated. "It's really just from studying the subject over the past few months."

She nodded. "Well, you conveyed the information very convincingly."

Farnham cleared his throat, looking at her with a maddeningly superior smile. "Well, folks, for future reference, I guess we know what it takes to get a good review from Dr. Brennan here."

She looked at him in surprise, unsure to what he was alluding. "Superior research and execution almost always earn high marks from me, Jason," she said coolly.

He chuckled. "No need to get defensive, Temperance. TJ belongs to the club - we all get that, don't we?"

He looked around the room, as though to make certain the others were in agreement. It didn't appear they were, however. In fact, apart from Farnham there wasn't a smile to be found. There was a long, tense silence while the others waited for her response.

The clock was ticking, Brennan realized. TJ had waited an entire week for this critique, and it would be selfish and unprofessional to allow her personal feelings to rob the young writer of something he'd clearly earned. She took a breath, forcing a cold smile.

"I don't know to what club you're referring, exactly, but if you disagree with my perspective, perhaps you should begin this critique."

He flashed another grin, nodding his head. "Perhaps I should." He paused. Stood, shuffling through his stack of papers until he came to a section that Brennan could see was highlighted.

"Page six is really quite good – your description of the hospital is very well written." He took the rest of the manuscript and put it back in the folder.

"The rest, unfortunately, is neither convincing nor compelling. As someone who worked in a hospital for a number of years – unlike Dr. Brennan, who has made a career of working with _dead _bodies – I can tell you firsthand that you did very little to convincingly convey the subculture at work within the halls of a hospital. The rest of the story is self-indulgent, with overly extravagant descriptions and awkward dialogue."

Despite what was obviously a personal attack, TJ didn't seem at all upset by the words. Or surprised, for that matter.

"You disagree, Temperance?" Farnham asked, apparently noting the frustration on her face.

"Vehemently," she said shortly. "As someone who has worked extensively in a number of institutional settings – including hospitals with _live _bodies – I believe Mr. Wright did an excellent job of establishing the interpersonal dynamics at work in such a setting."

"Well, then, we'll just have to agree to disagree," Farnham returned evenly. "You wouldn't understand the way it is for people who actually work in those institutions, day in and day out – someone like you swoops in for an afternoon, and then you're gone. When I was working at St. Vincent's – "

"And when, exactly, did you work at St. Vincent's?" Brennan couldn't help but ask, aware that she should really be doing a much better job at reigning herself in. "Would that have been between the years that you saved those firemen on September 11th and you and I met in Algeria? Or was it before that – perhaps when you were hunting big game with Roosevelt and his cabinet?"

TJ laughed out loud, then quickly shut his mouth and stared at the table. The rest of the students stayed quiet, and Caleb looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"You seem awfully defensive of Mr. Wright," Farnham said smugly, as though her comments had merely proven his point.

Caleb cleared his throat. "Maybe we should take a quick break," he suggested.

"That's a great idea," TJ agreed, but Brennan quickly shook her head.

"No, let's continue," she took a breath, using every ounce of willpower to keep from leaping across the table and braining Farnham where he stood.

"Jason, why don't you finish your critique, and then I'll give TJ my comments."

"As you wish, Temperance," he said smoothly.

He continued his scathing review of TJ's work for a full twenty minutes, before Brennan interrupted once more.

"Perhaps you could summarize your final comments so that I could have some time before evaluations," she told him, still struggling to maintain some semblance of decorum.

"I just have another few pages," Farnham returned.

"I'm sure you can give TJ about the rest of your notes after class. I'd like to review some of my comments now," she insisted, aware that the other students were watching her closely.

It was nearly twelve-thirty – they'd spent the past half-hour listening to Farnham rail against every turn of phrase TJ had used, every plot twist or character quirk. So much for providing the students with an unbiased critique of their work. The room was silent for a few seconds, the sound of laughter from a neighboring workshop faint in the distance.

"Of course, Temperance. How rude of me to get between you and Mr. Wright." He grinned at the pun, though no one else seemed amused.

Brennan managed to get a few of her points across to both TJ and the other students, about the many things he had done well in his manuscript. However, many of those points were lost or obliterated by Farnham's incessant sidebars. She was seething by the time the workshop was finally over, fully prepared to take Jason Farnham down just as soon as the students cleared the room.

Unfortunately, Caleb and TJ seemed to sense what was about to happen – they remained behind, and Farnham managed to escape without a word.

"He's not worth it," TJ told her, blocking the door to prevent her from going after the other instructor.

Standing this close to him in the doorway, she realized for the first time that TJ actually cut a fairly imposing figure – tall and well-built, with sharp eyes and a charming smile. Just as she had in her teaching positions in the past, she'd come to view her students in a separate class from herself, though TJ was likely only a year or two younger than her, and had in all likelihood been writing far longer.

"Of course he's not worth it," she replied. "Bbut he still shouldn't get away with those things he said. Not to mention the implication that you and I – "

He shrugged. "It's not true, right? We know that, and so does everyone else here. Farnham knows it too, but he just wanted to piss you off."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, he succeeded."

When it became clear that he wasn't moving, Brennan stepped away from the door and returned to the table. Caleb handed her the last of the paperwork from the other students, sealed inside an envelope she was to hand in to Dr. Taylor during lunch.

"You know the phrase 'little fish in a little pond'?" Caleb asked.

She nodded. "Of course."

"Well, Farnham's a tiny fish in a little pond. And every so often, a big fish jumps into that pond and the only way he can make himself feel bigger is to piss that big fish off."

She didn't respond for a few seconds, until TJ finally cleared his throat. "Uh – you're the big fish in that metaphor. In case that was, you know, unclear."

"No, I understood," she said impatiently. "What I fail to understand, however, is why anyone would tolerate such a monumental ass."

"Tenure," both Caleb and TJ said as one, echoing the answer they'd given when Brennan had first arrived.

"Well," TJ amended. "Tenure, and he's Dr. Taylor's cousin or half-brother or sister's cousin's uncle or something. That doesn't hurt."

"Tenure and nepotism are hardly acceptable excuses for the type of behavior Jason Farnham has exhibited this past week. Really, there's no excuse for having someone like this on staff."

Before she could continue, Jamie knocked lightly on the doorsill before entering the room.

"Sorry to interrupt, but there's a gorgeous man wandering the grounds looking for you, T."

Brennan chewed her lip fretfully for a moment, still torn between going after Farnham herself or simply having a word with Dr. Taylor and letting him handle the matter.

"Trouble?" the other woman inquired.

"She's trying to decide whether or not to kick Farnham's ass," TJ told her.

Jamie smiled. "We've all been there, trust me. But he really is harmless - he's not nearly as horrible as he seems."

"I'm not honestly considering physical violence," she retorted, though that wasn't necessarily true. "I simply don't think he should get away with the kind of performance he gave today."

"What'd he do?" Jamie asked Caleb.

"Told TJ he's a hack, and implied that he and Dr. Brennan are, you know…"

"Ahh," Jamie nodded understandingly. "Well, yeah, I never said he wasn't annoying. But he obviously hasn't seen tall, dark, and brooding out there – sorry, Teej, you don't stand a shot."

Brennan came to at this, feeling the color climb her cheeks. "He's my partner – not my, you know, my um – " She paused in an effort to regain her composure. "He's my partner with the FBI. Special Agent Seeley Booth. He's here on a case."

Jamie nodded. "Well, whatever he is, I think he's about to get swallowed whole by the Senator, so you might want to get down there and save him before it's too late."

A look of horror crossed Caleb's face. "Damn it – I'll go get her."

Brennan nodded, only slightly less horrified, her focus shifting from her issues with Farnham to the more immediate danger of Booth being assaulted by an overly coiffed fundamentalist in search of her next husband.

"Yes – thank you. I don't know if Booth's ready for Senator Woolrich yet."

* * *

Unfortunately, before Brennan could get to Booth, she was interrupted just as she exited the mansion by the buzz of her cell phone. Noting her agent's name on the display, she waved at Booth across the grounds, indicating her cell phone so that he'd know she was taking a call.

"Brennan," she answered irritably. Booth was surrounded by Senator Woolrich and three of her aging disciples, all of whom appeared intent on monopolizing her partner's attention. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt, the charm smile fixed easily on his lips, as though he wasn't being tortured in the least.

"What are you reading tonight?" her agent began immediately.

Brennan had been through several agents before she finally settled on Willa, an accomplished editor who'd started her own agency several years before. The primary reason Brennan had chosen her was the fact that the woman never wasted her time with social niceties, choosing instead to get straight to the point – something Brennan very much appreciated.

Brennan watched as Caleb infiltrated the group of women beside Booth and all but physically extricated his mother from her partner's side. Booth was saying something to the others, probably trying to excuse himself; Brennan sighed exasperatedly at Willa's question.

"Reading? I haven't decided – I thought perhaps the scene in the boatyard. I believe there's enough action in that sequence to keep people interested."

"Wrong answer," Willa said immediately, which was exactly what Brennan had hoped she wouldn't say. "Chapter two, Temperance – I'm telling you. It's what Sara and the others want you to be pushing for the next few months. You tease with that, and you're gonna have a bestseller the week it hits the shelves."

Booth had succeeded in getting away, and was now heading toward her. Brennan sighed again, turning her back on her approaching partner to focus more completely on the conversation with Willa.

"I don't think it makes sense to read that part – it's not interesting. There's no mystery, no action."

"Have I ever been wrong before?" Willa asked. "Just trust me – it's what people want to hear. It pulls them in in a way nothing you've written before has, and that's saying something."

Booth reached her side just as a trio of students from Brennan's workshop appeared, apparently to speak with her. Brennan got Willa off the phone by promising she would read the passage her agent had recommended, despite her considerable trepidation. Her students, however, were less easily put off. By the time lunch was over, Brennan had barely had time to say hello to Booth, much less steal a moment alone with him. She did manage to kiss him in the parking lot – though she was the one to initiate it, and he kept looking around as though he was certain they'd be caught.

"You're not very good at acting single," he told her, though he kept his arms around her, murmuring the words in her ear as they leaned against the driver's side door of her car.

"You're not helping," she returned.

He ran his hand along her side, unexpectedly inching his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt. The contact was enough to make her press her body against him more fully, feeling overly sensitized and undeniably eager.

"Y'know, Bones, if you skip the seminar, I'll make it worth your while," he said, taking her earlobe between his teeth.

She shivered at the feel of his warm breath on her neck, but she did summon the strength to pull away.

"I have to go – it's my teaching partner for the next week running the seminar. He's expecting me."

Booth rolled his eyes, though she expected he wasn't really surprised at her refusal. "Fine. Pick you up at four?"

"I'll see you then," she agreed.

She couldn't seem to stop smiling when he was around – which made her feel like an idiot, but was made marginally more bearable by the fact that Booth seemed to be having the same problem. The idea of going to a seminar rather than returning to the house for the afternoon was unappealing to say the least; walking back to the Llewellyn house, Brennan found her mind completely occupied by the thought of Booth. Naked Booth. Naked Booth, in all his glory, with his muscles and his tongue and his impressively short refractory period.

She was not looking forward to the seminar.

* * *

David Lethem's lecture was on unreliable narrators. Brennan had only done part of the suggested reading, but she was nevertheless interested in the subject – as investigators, she realized that she and Booth were constantly facing a similar dilemma. When viewing an incident from someone else's perspective, how did one determine which aspects of the narrative were factually accurate and which were merely subjective?

The room where Lethem was giving his lecture was standing room only, however TJ, Caleb, and Jamie had saved a seat for her. Brennan settled between Jamie and TJ, ignoring Jamie's inquiring glance, which was no doubt in reference to her disappearance with Booth. Thankfully, Lethem took the podium before any of the group had an opportunity to ask questions.

Lethem was not what anyone would consider traditionally attractive – in fact, his features were distinctly asymmetrical, his nose slightly too long, his lips a shade too thin. He was not a tall man, but he was lean and moved well, someone who clearly maintained an active lifestyle. Brennan estimated his age to be in his mid-forties, and he was well-spoken and extremely assured.

"The trick with the unreliable narrator," Lethem told the group, a hint of a New England accent detectable in his speech. "Is that you – the writer – have to know up front that your character's unreliable… But you can't tip your hand to the reader, unless you actually want the world to know your guy's full of shit." He scratched his head, taking a sip of water before he continued. Pacing slightly, he used the space allotted him very well – Brennan found herself increasingly impressed with him.

"Huck Finn is your classic example of the unreliable narrator, but we know from the start – based on his patterns of speech, the way he interacts, his view of the world and its so-called 'sivilized' ways – " here he used air quotes to indicate the character's disdain of the term. "That we'll be getting a highly subjective story. On the other end of the spectrum, you have writers like Pat McGrath or Stewart O'Nan, who present characters who seem credible at the outset, only to have that credibility disintegrate as the story unfolds."

She was considering this point when Jamie subtly set her notebook on Brennan's lap. Feeling very much as though she'd reentered eighth grade (though, naturally, Brennan had never been one to pass notes in class, even then), she read the words scrawled on the page.

_Lethem wants to meet you. Dinner tonight before the reading?_

_What time? _she wrote hurriedly, hoping to return to the lecture before someone noticed her lack of attention. As it was, she noted that Farnham – seated two rows behind them – was quite clearly focused on what she was doing, rather than on Lethem.

_6. You can bring your partner._

Brennan nodded her understanding, then refocused on the lecture for the remainder of the afternoon.

By the time three-thirty came, however, she had to admit that she really was paying very little attention to David Lethem or his bevy of unreliable narrators. Instead, she found herself daydreaming about Booth. What he was doing, what he was wearing. Where he was wearing it. How long it would take her to get him home and out of whatever he was wearing, once the seminar was over. She felt oversexed and ridiculous, but recognized the feeling as the inevitable surge of chemicals flooding her system as a result of what had transpired between them. She wasn't out of control, she reminded herself – she still had all her faculties about her. It was just chemistry.

Booth was waiting at the curb for her when she got out of the seminar, leaning against the car reading the paper. He grinned when he saw her, then opened the passenger's side door, tossed the paper in the backseat, and – she thought, though she wasn't positive – almost leaned in to kiss her as she was getting into the car, before he seemed to remember himself and stopped.

"Ready?"

She nodded. She didn't protest the fact that he'd opened her door for her, and there was no discussion about whether or not she should drive – though it was, after all, her rental. What bothered her about these things weren't the facts themselves so much as just how _not _bothered she was by all of them. He called her babe, and told her that Farnham was a no-talent hack – even though he had no objective way of knowing that. She appreciated the sentiment, regardless. She kissed his neck and then traced the outline of his half-hard phallus through his pants, anxious to get home, only to be told she would have to wait for one more stop. He was teasing, she knew – nevertheless, it was quite clearly Brennan in the passenger seat once again, Booth at the wheel.

Instead of going home, he took her to a garage in a bad part of town, just a couple of streets from Abby Martin's home. At first, she thought that was where they were going – that for some reason, this was where the case had taken them. She didn't know why, but she was relieved when they turned down a different street. Abby Martin – her house, her life, her death – still felt like something she didn't know how to explain to Booth. It felt too raw, too… personal, somehow.

Instead, he took her to meet Artie and Mickey. Artie was a paraplegic, likely paralyzed at the L1/L2 vertebrae based on the degree of muscle deterioration in his legs and the range of motion he appeared to have in his upper body. He wasn't what she'd expected – not that she'd really given it much thought, and not that it would have been logical for Booth to tell her his friend was in a wheelchair. It was irrelevant, really, but nevertheless she found herself speculating as to how it had happened. Whether Booth was there for it – and if so, whether he blamed himself. She imagined that he probably did, since it seemed Booth blamed himself for almost every bad that happened to anyone he cared about. She didn't notice a lot of things, but she'd certainly noticed that.

Artie inquired about the tracking device, which she assured him worked well. And then, a short, densely built man with a crew cut appeared, carrying one of her books.

And that was when everything went wrong, because that was when she was informed that it was Mickey in the woods that day, following her. Mickey shadowing her, day in and day out, telling Booth everything about where Brennan had been and what she'd been doing there.

"You had someone following me and you didn't tell me?" she demanded, thinking immediately of the terror she'd felt Wednesday behind the Llewellyn's house. The number of times since that day, that she'd found herself looking over her shoulder anticipating the worst.

Only to learn that her fears had been unfounded, and – yet again – Booth was in control.

"I needed to know you were safe," he said, clearly feeling justified for what he'd done.

"I'm safe, Booth!" she said, then stopped herself before she said what she really wanted to say. Instead, she somehow managed to reign in her fury enough to say goodbye to Booth's friends, and returned to the car.

Booth drove them home in silence. He attempted to apologize several times, but she had no response. The neighborhood flashed past, though she barely noticed. She'd lost herself, she realized. Less than twenty-four hours in, and she didn't know how to get them back on equal ground. How to convince him that she was no maiden in distress – that this wasn't just her being cute, some absurd game in which she played at being strong only to, ultimately, expect him to pick up the pieces at the end of the day. This was who she was: she took care of herself.

She didn't wait for him to park the car when they got back. Didn't say a word, wondering silently even as she headed for the house, if he would follow her. In the back of her mind, she realized suddenly that part of her hoped that he wouldn't – it would be so much simpler that way. Over, before it began.

But a moment later, the front door opened and closed behind her.

"Listen, Bones – "

She pulled her t-shirt off in the living room, yanking her stupid fucking tracking device right along with it. Tripped twice on the stairs trying to get out of her jeans, before she finally succeeded and left them where they fell. She still didn't know what she was going to say, precisely, but she knew that somehow she needed him to hear her.

He followed her up the stairs, and into the bedroom. Her bedroom, that was now, suddenly, theirs.

"Bones, would you just let me explain – "

"Explain what, Booth? How you hired someone to follow me – to watch my every move over the past week, and then proceeded to lie to me – "

"Hey, I never lied – "

"A lie of omission, then," she shouted, advancing on him until she'd backed him up against the bed. His pupils were dilated, and she realized with a definite sense of satisfaction that, for once, she had the upper hand. Getting undressed hadn't been about that initially, but if this was what it took to get him to pay attention, so be it.

She showed him her scars, then – not all of them, certainly, but enough to make him see. The one from the bullet just a few months ago; the one Eric Murdock had given her that night when she was sixteen, though she didn't show him the others from that same night… She showed him the scar from Uzbekistan, and then she stood there with him trapped on the bed, her breath coming hard, and before she even knew what she was doing, she went to the closet. Found the shoe that had been following her since she was fifteen, and threw it at him.

"You remember Kelly Morris?" she asked, not thinking for a moment that he actually would.

But he nodded. "The foster kid whose brother killed her boyfriend. Yeah, Bones, I remember." He looked sorry for her – which wasn't what she'd been trying to accomplish. Suddenly, everything she'd been trying to make him understand was undone.

"I asked if you had a list – like the kids we met. A list of the families who threw you out."

She wished she could take it back, now that it was out there. Because suddenly, she wasn't the one in control at all – suddenly, she was half-naked and scarred, a shoe that should mean less giving him entrance to a part of her life she'd never meant to share.

"Seven families in three years," she told him, fighting to keep her voice even. Fighting to make him angry, even hurt him – to do anything to extinguish the pity she saw in his eyes. "I survived, Booth. I've survived all of those things, and a hell of a lot more. When I say I can take care of myself, it's not simply me being stubborn." She kept going, pulling up short on the one concept that she couldn't seem to get straight, the one thing she couldn't seem to convince him of. "I can survive without you."

He was on his feet at that, advancing on her. Bringing up points that, she had to admit, did seem to have some merit if she looked at them objectively. She didn't know why she went into the woods after Mickey, or why she refused to get the transmitter, or why she couldn't seem to stay away from Rachel Martin's house. And she most definitely had no idea why she'd unpacked that ratty goddamn shoe from the back of her closet, and brought it with her on this case.

She didn't back down while he was shouting at her, though she understood why someone else might. When he'd quieted, and she didn't know what to say in response, the room went still. She wasn't certain, but it seemed as though things were finished, then – that this was all the evidence both of them needed, a glaring list of reasons they shouldn't be together. She walked away, hoping once again that, maybe, he wouldn't follow.

Part of her, though – the part of her, perhaps, that had watched him sleep this morning, that had grinned like an idiot when he picked her up at the Llewellyn's, the part that fell asleep in his arms and loved the way his hair looked in the morning… That part of her didn't seem quite so prepared to end things. She fought to keep her tone level as she searched her closet, suddenly desperate to cover herself.

"I'm supposed to meet them at the restaurant at six, and then be at the auditorium by seven-thirty," she told him. She didn't turn around, half-afraid that he would be standing there, watching her. Half-afraid that he would be gone.

She put a t-shirt on and turned around. He hadn't followed her. But he hadn't gone, either.

"I probably won't be back before the reading. Will you – " she stopped, her voice cracking just a tinge. She waited until she'd regained her composure before continuing. "If you don't want to come now, I understand. It will probably be boring for you, anyway."

And then he was there – in front of her, just a few inches away. "Bones, I'm comin' to dinner, okay? And the reading." He leaned his forehead against hers, running his hands along her arms as though to warm her. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

She shifted so she could look him in the eye, not ready to give up yet. "You have to give me space, Booth. I know you're only trying to protect me, but you have to trust that I really do know what I'm doing."

When he kissed her again, it didn't feel like she was the one out of control – there was something about the way he wrapped his arms around her, the near-violence of his kiss, that felt very much as though he was the one who was lost. He explained to her about the boys, about how if this had been a case involving them, he would be the one losing perspective. She would be the one telling him to tread with more caution, and the way he explained it to her made sense. Objectively, she could see how her history might have some impact on the case as it was unfolding. And, if she knew nothing else, she did know that Booth honestly had her best interests at heart.

They had sex again before leaving for dinner – he was tender, more serious than he'd been the other times, and when he was poised above her she found herself studying him again. The laugh lines and the smile, the strong jaw, the prominent brow. Brown eyes, straight teeth. He grinned at her, pushing the hair back from her forehead as he rocked into her again, eliciting a gasp.

"Hey, Bones – I'm right here. You start drifting in the middle of make-up sex, and it does something to a guy's confidence."

She rolled her eyes, but stopped mid-eyeroll when he rocked into her again – harder this time, until everything was concentrated on that single point where they joined and she gasped again, pressing her pelvis up to meet him.

"I'm here, Booth."

"You sure?" he asked, a familiar, teasing smirk on his lips. He reached down and pulled her leg up higher, angling still deeper when he thrust again. "'Cause I can go deeper."

She leaned up and kissed him, hard, wrapping her legs around him, hooking her ankles behind his knees. "Promises, promises," she said silkily in his ear.

And for the next half-hour or so, it seemed no one was in control. Which, in this particular instance, seemed just as it should be.

* * *

At dinner that night, Farnham waited until David Lethem went into the bathroom, then sat down beside her and told her he wished things had worked out better between them, because he thought they could be great friends. She fought the urge to stab him in the eye with her fork, and merely nodded politely. He was clearly drunk. He continued babbling about what a wonderful time they might have had together, while Booth charmed every woman at the table and she tried in vain to explain to TJ what her agent had said about his manuscript.

All in all, it was a frustrating dinner, that suddenly didn't seem nearly so frustrating when Booth squeezed her knee under the table. She was nervous about the reading, and tired of Jason Farnham, and sick of trying to play the role of writer when she honestly, really missed her bones, but the fact that Booth seemed to understand all of those things was strangely comforting.

They got through dinner.

At the reading, Senator Woolrich was scheduled first – something Caleb told her Dr. Taylor had arranged, as this was the only way it seemed anyone would actually come to hear the woman speak. And, since the Senator had been such a large patron of the university in the past, it was apparently important to assemble at least a passable crowd for her.

Just before the Senator took the stage, she leaned over in her seat to whisper to Brennan.

"Are you nervous, Dr. Brennan?"

Brennan was never nervous about readings – what would be the point? There was really very little at stake, particularly when compared with the work she did in the outside world. She supposed that, having been shot at and beaten up and buried alive, having restored the identities of the unnamed dead and reunited families and brought killers to justice, standing in front of a hall of people reading a few pages in a well-lit space was comparatively harmless.

Except, of course, for this reading. Because on this particular evening, at this particular reading, Brennan appeared to be on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack. She shook her head, though, hoping that the woman would take the hint and just be quiet until it was time for her to get up.

"No. I'm fine," she lied.

She'd been thinking a great deal about why it was, exactly, that she was so reluctant to read this passage – which, after all, was just fiction. As fictional as it may have been to her, however, she'd been around her friends enough to recognize that things she insisted were pure fiction would almost invariably be taken as fact by the rest of the world – the workings of her innermost subconscious, laid bare for the world to read. And while it was true that she'd written these pages in the days following Booth's supposed death, and while it was true that – perhaps – the feelings she'd experienced in those days _may_ have given her a better insight into how Kathy Reichs _might_ have felt in the same situation… At the heart of it all, it was just fiction.

Fiction, damn it.

Booth, however, would never believe that. And neither would anyone else.

Hence, the anxiety.

"My son is here," the Senator told her, somewhat pointlessly.

"Yes, I know – we just had dinner together," Brennan said. She wondered if, perhaps in addition to being excruciatingly uninformed about the science of stem cell research, the woman was also experiencing some dementia.

"Not Caleb – my other son," she whispered loudly.

They were seated in uncomfortable plastic chairs under harsh stage lighting, watching the auditorium slowly fill. A fake potted hydrangea was on an end table to her left, which Brennan didn't care for – she could never understand the point of making a stage seem hospitable, when it so clearly was not. At this latest revelation, however, Brennan was suddenly much more interested in what the senator had to say.

"The surgeon?" she asked.

The senator smiled widely, clearly thinking Brennan had something other than an academic interest in her son. Which, she supposed, was technically true.

"That's right – Douglas. He's right over there."

She pointed to their left, to the same section where Brennan had reserved a seat for Booth. She made a conscious effort not to make eye contact with her partner, but she did look long enough to note that Caleb was seated between Jamie and someone who looked slightly like him, though clearly older. It was impossible to tell any more than that from where she was sitting, but Brennan was nevertheless suddenly much less focused on her nerves. Dr. Douglas Murray, who had been in the operating room with Rachel Martin on the night she disappeared. Who had worked alongside her for nearly a year, before that disappearance. For the first time, Brennan had an actual, physical link with one of the victims.

She resisted the urge to go down and introduce herself. Casually bring up his life as a surgeon. Where he'd done his residency – which would naturally lead to a conversation about the surgeon under whom he'd studied during that time. She would mention hearing that the Chief of Surgery had been murdered at Portland Presbyterian – had he known her? Perhaps after the reading, they could all go out together. Ply him with drinks, find out what he knew.

In the meantime, however, there was still the blasted reading. Dr. Taylor got up and introduced the Senator, who took the podium and read a mind numbingly dull narrative about her life in politics – Brennan imagined that Booth must be in hell, but she resisted the urge to look for him in the audience. During the break, Dr. Taylor spoke with her about his plans for the future of the writing program while she tried not to think about the pages she was about to read, focusing instead on her imaginary interrogation with Douglas Murray.

The reading went well. She told an anecdote comparing immersion with the Yanomamo tribes in South America with attending a writing conference, which everyone seemed to appreciate. She read the pages Willa had instructed her to, despite her reservations. The audience applauded. She got off the stage. People asked her to sign their books. She was shaking, which had never happened to her at a reading – before or after. She forgot about imaginary interrogations.

Several minutes passed, while people shook her hand and asked her to sign their books, but all she was focused on was finding Booth. And that wasn't what she _should _be focused on, she realized. Doug Murray was in the audience. There was a killer at large, that she was supposed to be helping to find. But all she could seem to focus on was whether or not Booth had taken her words the wrong way – though objectively she wasn't even sure what the wrong way _was_ anymore.

She hated this feeling. _Hated_ it. Sex was wonderful, fun, freeing – the rest of this, however, seemed like some medieval form of torture.

And then, Jason Farnham came up to her. He rubbed her shoulders, and whispered in her ear.

"Nice job, Tempe. I'm proud of you."

That was it for Jason Farnham.

He hadn't even gotten the sentence out before she whirled and struck him, landing a blow just below his left zygomatic arch with her right fist. Punching Booth had been extremely painful, but somehow this hurt worse – perhaps she'd done it wrong, this time.

Booth was at her side a moment later, his hand resting automatically at the small of her back. He steered her away from Farnham, who still sat stunned on the auditorium floor.

"Okay, Bones – how's about we make a run for it before you do any real damage," he said in her ear, before addressing the crowd that had gathered around them. "That's it, folks – show's over. Move along."

"He deserved it," she told him as they were walking away, holding her hand up to her chest, already feeling it swell.

Booth laughed. "Yeah, Bones – I'm sure he did, but you couldn't have waited for someplace a little more public? Like the White House lawn, maybe?"

Once they were in the parking lot, the events of the past day seemed to catch up with her quickly. Her hand was throbbing, as was her head. She was tired of playing writer rather than anthropologist; tired of being away from home, away from the Jeffersonian, away from her friends and her life in D.C. With a jolt, she realized that she was, in effect, tired of everything but Booth.

"I don't really want to go to the party," she told him, as she was getting into the car.

He hesitated a moment, casting her a glance that she couldn't read. "You sure, Bones? I think you were supposed to be the belle of the ball – I'm pretty sure Lethem was planning on filling your dance card."

She shook her head. And what she wanted to say, suddenly, was that she didn't want to be around anyone else. Didn't want to talk, didn't want to think, didn't want to do anything but curl up in his t-shirt with her head on his shoulder, and do nothing. Well – perhaps not nothing. But not much, really.

She didn't say any of those things, of course. Instead, she held up her hand, by way of explanation.

"My knuckles are swelling," she said.

He nodded, but she suspected that he saw through her excuse. "All right, Bones. We'll go home."

He smiled at her and closed the passenger's side door, before going around to his side. She leaned back and closed her eyes once they were on the road, truly feeling her exhaustion for the first time. There were so many things to think about, but between the recent developments with Booth and the continuing drama at the writing conference, she was finding less and less of her focus was on the Lady Killer. She couldn't recall a time when she'd ever been more distracted from her work, more eager to put her files aside in favor of more pleasurable pursuits.

A classic rock station was playing low on the radio; Booth tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, humming along quietly. Saturday night traffic in the neighborhood was busy, and they found themselves making little progress on the short journey home. He was wearing what she expected was a new suit, and she realized that she'd never actually complimented him on how handsome he looked. Or how well he'd handled the barrage of questions directed at him from all sides during dinner. He'd flown out here to be with her despite his many obligations in D.C., reassured her about her reading, and – despite how much she disagreed with what he'd done – had arranged for his friends to keep watch over her in his absence, to help ensure her safety.

Which was when the realization struck her again, sitting in traffic with Booth beside her, humming a song she didn't know. The idea brought tears to her eyes – all the more proof that her conclusion was correct. She leaned back against the headrest, looking out the window so that he wouldn't see her tears.

It wouldn't work.

A relationship with Booth was simply a bad idea – it would interfere with their partnership. Change everything. Change _her – _hadn't today proven that? She felt flustered and overwrought, distracted and uncertain of everything, now that they were together.

She would have to end things. Tonight – before it went any further. It would be difficult at first, but now they knew – they'd tried this, and ultimately it had been unsuccessful. He would be better with someone else, anyway – someone who wanted children, who would go to church with him and not question his beliefs or challenge everything he stood for. It would be better, smarter, to stop this now.

Typically when she came to a decision about something that had been bothering her, she felt better – pleased that there was a resolution in sight, and eager to put that resolution in place. She closed her eyes again.

She didn't feel better.

Booth ran the back of his hand lightly along the side of her face. It was pleasantly cool and, despite her decision, she found herself leaning into his touch, another tear leaking from the corner of her eye.

"You okay, Bones? I know it's been kind of a long day."

She nodded. Cleared her throat, keeping her face averted as she quickly brushed away her tears.

"It has. I think the lack of sleep over the past several days is catching up to me."

He took her hand – the one without the bruised knuckles, of course – and twined his fingers with hers, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Yeah, well – maybe tomorrow we can just hang out a little. Sleep in, veg out. Get out all the grisly murder files and come up with theories over pizza." He paused. "Did you know Doug Murray was there tonight?"

She nodded, looking at him curiously – her tears forgotten, for the moment. "Did you get a chance to speak with him? The Senator told me he was there, but then afterward…"

"Sure," he flashed a smile at her, then returned his eyes to the road. "Not a lot of time to interrogate anyone in between big-time readings and punching guys out. I didn't get much chance myself, either – he was with Caleb, though. A little too into his mom's reading, if you ask me."

"Based on the degree of violence inflicted on the victims prior to their deaths, the killer would have to be someone with a great deal of physical power – Caleb's very small."

"Yeah, but his brother's not – I was close enough to see that much, anyway. He's a power-house, looks like he works out a lot. There's something else, too – I had a chance to talk to Michelle Lowell's sister today."

She laughed, suddenly – genuine laughter, until he was staring at her with an eyebrow quirked in confusion.

"You mind letting me in on the joke?"

"You," she said, still laughing – a tear or two falling into the mix, and she sniffled and wiped them away before she explained. "You've been here less than a day, and you've managed to threaten Washington, fight with me, charm every woman between the ages of twenty and seventy-five in the conference, interview Michelle Lowell's sister, buy a new suit, and make love to me five times. Have I missed anything?"

He smiled. "I didn't think you'd notice the suit."

"Well, I did." She paused. His hand was still in hers, warm and comfortable. Strangely familiar, as though they'd been holding hands like this for years. "You didn't have to go buy something, though – or you could have at least let me pay for it." He didn't say anything, but the tic in his jaw suggested she was saying something wrong. She sighed, going for another approach. "You do look nice, though. Handsome."

"Tell me about it," he said with a grin, before he looked away and she realized he was embarrassed. "Look, I know nobody can know we're together and whatever, but…" he shrugged. "I just wanted to look good, you know? The reading tonight was a big deal, and you were pretty amazing, Bones. I didn't want to just be some poor schlub tagging along after you."

The comment drew another laugh from her. "I don't even know what that means, but you hardly need me to tell you how attractive you are. Or how much more interesting you are than any of the men at this conference. And I can't imagine you tagging along after anyone."

He smiled. Kissed her hand. It seemed as though he wanted to say something before he finally settled on, "Thanks, Bones."

She thought again of ending the relationship, before things got too complicated. Too messy. Too… painful. Years ago, she'd had a conversation with Angela about somehow finding a way to turn off that disconnect between her mind and the metaphorical heart Booth was always talking about. It was about being scared – Angela had said as much, and logically Brennan knew that she was right. Maybe, it was time to finally face that fear.

* * *

When they got home that night, Booth crushed some ice and made an impromptu ice pack for her hand. He excused himself to make a phone call, and she went upstairs and put on one of his t-shirts, though she had her own pajamas that would have worked just fine. She got out the Lady Killer files and began going through them, but before she'd gotten to the second file she found her eyelids growing heavy. Booth was still downstairs – she could hear his voice in the distance, though she couldn't make out the words. She closed her eyes, enjoying the groggy feel of half-sleep, with Booth nearby and nothing but him and the case in the morning.

Sometime later, he came upstairs and set the files on the floor, and she woke.

"How's the hand, champ?" he asked her.

She flexed it, thinking of the twenty-seven bones working beneath the flesh to make that simple movement possible. "Fine. Not broken, just slightly swollen."

He'd changed from his suit into sweatpants and a t-shirt, but now he took those off and climbed into bed beside her, wearing only his boxer shorts. Kissed her bruised knuckles, and she curled into him because, honestly, it's where she'd wanted to be all day.

"You were great tonight, Bones," he told her. Almost shy when he said it, the way he sometimes got at moments like this, when they were alone together and he seemed to feel he was revealing something of himself. Though she wasn't sure what a statement like that really revealed about him.

"You mean when I bared my soul to an audience of five hundred, or when I punched out an aging pathological liar with a drinking problem?" she asked. He still hadn't mentioned the content of her reading, for which she was grateful – she waited, now, to see if he would say anything.

Instead, he laughed. "Do I have to pick one or the other?"

She smiled. "I suppose not."

Everything went still. He was watching her. She returned his gaze, studying the planes of his face, the brown of his eyes. He still looked tired, but much better than he had the night before. She thought again of watching him sleep – of his bones, his muscles, his flesh, his blood. Of the fragility inherent in the human form. So many things could go wrong. And yet, so many things didn't – people walked and talked. Crossed the street. Climbed ladders, jumped out of airplanes. Their bones broke, their bones mended.

Before scientists, humans walked around believing everyday was a miracle. Fire and food, rain and children and another day not eaten by tigers, all were viewed as gifts from the heavens. Objectively speaking, she thought she could understand their perspective. He brushed the hair from her eyes – she was learning that he liked to touch her, that he seemed to draw some measure of comfort from the contact, and that comfort had nothing to do with possession or who was in control of whom.

"I think I'm in love with you," she told him.

She'd never said the words to anyone, before.

Not Michael. Not Tom. Not Sully. Not anyone.

It didn't feel as terrifying as she thought it would. But it didn't feel quite safe, either.

"I know," he told her. Which might have seemed condescending, but somehow it didn't. He didn't seem afraid. Of course, Booth never seemed afraid, so maybe that wasn't the best way to gauge things.

"Is that okay?" he asked.

She considered the question. Was it okay? Not at all, really. It wasn't logical, and it wasn't safe. Or practical. And yet, here she was. In love.

"I suppose it has to be."

* * *

At some point in the middle of the night, Brennan had the Abby Martin dream again – the one in which the girl was alive and Brennan was supposed to save her. She woke with a start and lay there, wrapped up in Booth's arms, unable to get back to sleep. She started to try and disentangle herself, but he pulled her closer. He was behind her, her back pressed against his front, his legs tucked under hers, his arms around her.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

She hadn't realized he was awake. "Just a dream. I'll walk it off."

"Just stay here a few minutes – it'll walk itself off. Go back to sleep."

"I can't," she said after a moment, already thinking that perhaps she'd go downstairs and work on some of the cases Cam had sent over from the Jeffersonian.

"You're exhausted," he told her, still sounding sleepy. "Just close your eyes. I'll show you a trick my mom taught me, when I couldn't get back to sleep as a kid. Works like a charm."

This intrigued her enough to persuade her to stay put. He put one of his hands in hers, and put the other one over her heart.

"What are you doing?" she asked, starting to squirm out of his grasp to look at him.

"Ssh, Bones – just relax, would ya? Put your head back down." He began squeezing the fleshy area of her thumb gently, in time to her heartbeat.

"Booth, there's no scientific reason that would do anything – "

"Are you calling my mom a liar? It's all about biorhythms and pressure points, all right? Just… ssh. Close your eyes."

She did. He continued massaging her hand gently, using a firm, even pressure that was undeniably soothing. He kissed her head, never breaking his rhythm.

"Love ya, Bones," he whispered into her hair.

Her body began to feel heavier. "I love you, too," she whispered back.

And she slept.

* * *

_**And we're back to it, once more. Next chapter comes Wednesday night - sorry again for the long hiatus, I'll see if I can avoid it in the future. I know we're going over stuff we've already seen before, but Wednesday we'll be all new and fairly action packed. Let me know if you're bored in the meantime, though. And, of course, thanks for reading! - Jen**_


	10. Chapter 10

_And, we've got another looong one. Thanks as ever to everyone for their encouragement, hope this one holds your interest!_

* * *

**SUNDAY/MONDAY**

Brennan was dreaming of the Jeffersonian when she awoke Sunday morning – a pleasant dream, for a change, in which she and the others were working to identify several cadavers from the sixteenth century. Zack was there, and Angela was making jokes while Hodgins, inexplicably, wore a HAZMAT suit and preached the end of the world. But not in an ominous way – honestly, it seemed like a perfectly normal day. Somehowf in the midst of it, however, a steady knocking wove its way into what had otherwise been her first good night's sleep in weeks.

Booth groaned, and she reluctantly returned to the real world. "There's someone at your door," he grumbled, burying his head under the pillow.

"Probably religious recruiters," she grumbled back. "Just ignore them – they'll go away."

The room was cool, and she was slightly chilled – a risk she supposed one took when one insisted on sleeping naked. She shivered, and Booth wrapped his arm around her, pulling the blankets up close around both of them. All of this with his head still buried under the pillow. So much for being a morning person.

The knocking on the door grew more insistent.

"What if it's Washington?" she asked, opening her eyes reluctantly. "Maybe something happened with the case."

He lifted the pillow enough to peer at her from one eye. "Wouldn't he call, instead of trying to bust down your front door?"

She hesitated. There was a pause in the knocking – they were both silent, waiting to see if whoever it was had gone away.

A moment later, the knocking began anew.

"I don't think they're goin' away, Bones," he said. He groaned, then waited another moment before he threw the pillow on the floor and started to get up. "Hang on, I'll go get rid of 'em."

She sat up quickly, as it appeared he didn't intend to actually get dressed before he chased away whoever was trying to beat down her door.

"Booth, I can answer my own door. Just stay here," she told him. "I'll be back in two minutes."

She got out of bed and ignored her own clothes in favor of his t-shirt and sweatpants, not bothering to check her reflection before she went downstairs.

"You got your gun?" he called after her.

"Do you want me to put the transmitter in, too?" she returned dryly.

"You're goddamn hilarious in the morning, Bones. If you're not back in two minutes, I'm coming after you."

She didn't answer, already headed down the stairs.

* * *

It was most definitely no one she had expected when she answered the door.

Actually, it was several no ones.

"We came to pay homage to your fists of fury," Lethem informed her, as he walked past her threshold uninvited, carrying several grocery bags.

Brennan looked at the group that followed him in bewilderment: Caleb, TJ, Jamie, David Lethem, two female students whose names she couldn't remember… And Doug Murray.

Caleb looked unmistakably horrified, muttering, "I tried to talk them out of it," to her as he followed Lethem inside.

"We would've been here at five if Cale hadn't stepped in, though," TJ informed her. "So, don't fire him – he did what he could."

They came in on a cloud of stale cigarette smoke, alcohol, and unwashed bodies, everyone still wearing the clothes they'd had on at the reading the previous evening.

"You missed one hell of a night, Dr. Brennan," TJ told her. "We climbed Mount Hood and watched the sunrise over the city."

"Not something I recommend in heels, incidentally," Jamie added. She had on Caleb's suit jacket, though it wasn't quite long enough to reach her wrists, over an attractive black dress that looked considerably less attractive after a night of drinking and mountain climbing.

"Where's your kitchen?" Lethem asked. "We're making you breakfast."

She hesitated. No one had commented on the fact that she had clearly just woken up, wearing a man's t-shirt and sweatpants, her hair a tangled mess. Her hand throbbed, the knuckles even more swollen now, and she was beginning to reconsider her original estimation that she'd done no significant damage.

She led them into the kitchen before turning to Caleb, as he seemed the only one not in the midst of a conversation with someone else.

"I'll just go upstairs and change. You should be able to find everything – I'll only be a moment."

He nodded, still looking sheepish. "Yeah, of course. I'll make sure no one steals anything."

Lethem was already searching her cupboards for pots and pans, but glanced over his shoulder at this, winking at her rakishly.

"Don't worry, T – we'll be good."

She nodded, suddenly fairly overwhelmed. "I'll just be a moment," she repeated.

Upstairs, Booth was sitting up in bed, looking unmistakably disgruntled. His hair was standing comically on end, and his eyes were bleary and red-rimmed with sleep.

"Why are there people in your house at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning?"

She took off the t-shirt she'd been wearing and tossed it at him before she went to the closet in search of her own clothes.

"You have to get dressed. Doug Murray is here."

"What do you mean, Doug Murray's here?" he demanded. She noticed that he didn't seem terribly anxious to move.

"It's hardly a cryptic statement, Booth – Doug Murray is here. In my kitchen, along with an entire cadre of hungover novelists," she added, unable to hide her annoyance at the fact.

"But – " he ran his hand through his hair, scrubbed his chin. Yawned widely. "_Why, _Bones? What the hell, are you running a flophouse for crappy unpublished writers or what?"

"No – " She stepped out of his sweatpants and tossed them in his general direction, by no means oblivious to the way he was looking at her now-naked legs. "They're making me breakfast. They seem to feel this is some way of honoring me for hitting Jason Farnham last evening." She considered this for a moment. "Really, I thought people liked him far more than they apparently do."

He finally seemed to accept that she wouldn't be persuaded back to bed, and pulled on his sweats.

"The guy's an asshole, Bones – what makes you think anybody'd like that? I'm sure everyone down there's dreamed about giving him a good old-fashioned knuckle sandwich for years. Speaking of which…"

He got up and stood behind her at the closet, kissing her neck before he gently took her hand, examining her knuckles.

"Youch. You better take some aspirin, get that swelling down. And another ice pack couldn't hurt. You sure you don't need me to take you to the hospital?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm fine, Booth."

He grinned. "Yeah, I know – you can take care of yourself. So sue me. Now, who's down there?"

She abandoned the idea of trying to look halfway professional, leaving the closet in favor of her dresser drawers. The house was still cool, though it would likely warm up quickly with a dozen people making a full breakfast in her cramped kitchen – yoga pants and t-shirt seemed the order of the day.

"Doug and Caleb, TJ, Jamie, David Lethem, two women whose names I don't recall…"

She looked up and found Booth gone, the bathroom door standing ajar. A moment later, she realized with a mix of consternation and, strangely enough, a bizarre desire to smile, that he was relieving himself. With the door open. In her master bath. Four years of partnership, but this level of comfort was certainly new.

The toilet flushed a moment later, and he reappeared in the doorway with his toothbrush in his mouth.

"So – whose date are you supposed to be, TJ's or Lethem's?"

She looked at him in confusion. "Booth, it's barely seven a.m. I'm not supposed to be anyone's date."

He rolled his eyes, as though she was being unfathomably dense. "Four guys, three girls. Do the math. If you'd gone out with them last night the way they wanted, that would've been an even eight. You turned 'em down, but I'd bet money the date's not done yet. They know I'm here?"

She hesitated. His theory wasn't actually out of the question – TJ certainly hadn't been subtle since the week began, and Lethem had managed to drop a hint or two himself over dinner the night before. She considered his question, wondering suddenly what everyone believed about her partnership with Booth.

"I don't know," she finally responded. "I suppose they must."

"Okay, so… we just play it cool, right? I'm your partner, after all – as far as they know, I slept in the guest room." He spat into the sink, rinsed, then looked up to find her standing in the doorway watching him.

"What?" he grinned, though he looked slightly unnerved at her attention.

She grinned back. "Good morning," she said, idiotically.

She realized with a start that she was enjoying this – this newfound intimacy, the casual way with which he made himself at home in her life. It should be annoying; she should be feeling claustrophobic, anxious to reclaim her space. And yet, it was the furthest thing from her mind. He rolled his eyes, then came over and hugged her, nestling his face into her neck in a gesture that was becoming very familiar.

"Mornin', Bones. You ready to go catch some bad guys?" he asked.

"Most definitely."

She pulled her hair into a ponytail. Brushed her teeth. Checked her reflection one more time, just before she heard a loud crash downstairs. Moments later, Caleb called up the stairs.

"Everything's fine, Dr. Brennan – no big deal. Do you have a broom and dust pan anywhere?"

"You better get down there before they trash the place," Booth advised. "I'll come down in a few minutes – you just play it cool."

"I know, Booth," she said exasperatedly, heading for the door. "Just worry about yourself. If you don't give up the gimmick, I certainly won't."

"Game, Bones," he called after her. "It's game."

* * *

Downstairs, it seemed no one was terribly timid about making themselves at home in her house. One of the two anonymous women was curled up apparently asleep in the loveseat in the living room, a man's jacket draped over her inert form. TJ had found the stereo and was searching for an acceptable radio station – he looked up when she walked through the living room.

"They're all in the kitchen – I'm just looking for some mood music. Be right in."

She nodded, and followed the clatter of pots and pans interspersed with laughter and raucous conversation, to the kitchen. In the sunny, admittedly tight space, Lethem was slicing potatoes and onions while Jamie read headlines from the Sunday paper aloud to the group and Doug and Caleb did a running commentary on each story.

They stopped when Brennan came into the room.

"And here she is, the woman of the hour," Jamie said, raising a glass of suspiciously diluted looking orange juice in Brennan's general direction.

"Very hot, Temperance," Lethem said, raising an eyebrow at her. "I love a woman with a mean right hook."

"Don't mind him – he loves a woman with a mean anything," Jamie countered.

Lethem wiped his eyes, watering profusely from the onions. "You know me so well, James. What's love without a few bumps and bruises? Gets me misty just thinking about it."

Doug and Caleb were seated at the table, the unknown second woman – Darla, Brennan thought her name might be – draped on Doug's lap. TJ came in a moment later and stood beside Brennan, glancing at her hand. He'd found a jazz station, appropriately upbeat without being overwhelming, and now that played quietly in the background.

"Did you break anything?" he asked. "Jesus – that looks like it definitely hurts."

She shook her head. "I'm fine. Slightly bruised, slightly swollen. No permanent damage, that I can tell."

Doug looked up at this, practically pushing the woman who may or may not have been Darla out of his lap. "Here, let me take a look."

Purely in the interest of the case, she allowed the stranger to take her hand. She noted that Booth had been accurate in his estimation of Doug Murray the previous evening: he was only an inch or two taller than Caleb, but he probably outweighed his younger brother by fifty pounds. That fifty pounds was by no means fat, however – with his shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, his forearms were lined with veins and bulging unnaturally with muscle. Clearly, he had a rather unhealthy obsession with body building.

His hands, however, were dexterous and surprisingly gentle. When she winced as he exerted slight pressure, he made a face.

"You might want to have that x-rayed, actually. Probably nothing serious, but that's a lot of swelling. Come by the hospital later – I've got a surgery scheduled at three… Stop in around two, and I'll fix you right up."

She hesitated, trying not to betray her excitement. "Which hospital's that?"

"Portland Presbyterian – it's just a few miles from here. Small, but we've got a pretty good reputation." He smiled, meeting her eye – holding onto her hand all the while. "Stick with me and you're almost sure to get out of the place alive."

TJ rolled his eyes, smacking the doctor in the back of the head. "Easy there, Doc. One weekend away from the hospital, and he's suddenly Casanova."

Doug dropped her hand just as Booth appeared in the doorway. Brennan watched as her partner took in the scene, catching the contact between she and the doctor with a telltale wrinkle of concern before the expression vanished. He nodded toward the living room, appearing completely casual.

"I think you lost one of 'em," he said, indicating the girl asleep on the loveseat.

"That's Addie," TJ said dismissively, as though the name alone explained everything. Darla spoke up.

"My sister. She's tired."

Booth nodded. "Yeah, I got that. She okay?"

"Just sleeping it off," Lethem told him.

A look passed between the two men – a challenge, Brennan surmised, noting how they positioned themselves in much the same way male primates would when fighting over a potential mate. It was interesting, perhaps, but certainly not flattering.

"You remember my partner, David," she said to Lethem. The writer nodded, standing at the stovetop.

"Of course. Seeley, right?"

Booth nodded. "In the flesh." He came into the room, and took a place next to Lethem. "You need a hand? I make a mean steak and eggs."

Lethem surrendered a fry pan and the steak, choosing instead to focus on blueberry pancakes. Brennan had never been terribly fond of breakfast, and the entire circus in her kitchen was doing little to change her mind.

Booth nodded toward Doug, trying to get the man's attention. "So – you're the senator's son, right? The doctor? You get a chance to look at Bo – Temp…" he stopped, looking flustered for a moment. "My partner's hand?"

Doug nodded. He'd returned to his seat at the kitchen table, though it looked as though Darla was no longer that interested in sitting with him. Instead, she was looking over Jamie's shoulder as she and Caleb did the crossword.

"I told her to come by the hospital and get it checked out. Quite a right hook she's got – you teach her that?"

Booth grinned. "Nah – she taught me. I hit like a girl 'til I met Bones."

He seemed more at ease now that he had something with which to occupy himself. The others laughed appreciatively, though Jamie looked up at the name.

"Bones? Is that what they call you in D.C.?"

"Only Booth," Brennan said hurriedly, having visions of being saddled with the nickname for the rest of the next workshop. "And I only let him because…" She stopped, uncertain of how to explain it. They waited in silence for a second or more, before she finally shrugged. "I don't know – it's a partner thing. It's hard to explain, I guess."

"I need an eight-letter word for 'Reorganizes drastically,'" Caleb asked the group.

"Fourth letter's k," Jamie told them.

Apparently, the Bones debate was no longer an issue.

They tossed out a few answers that didn't really fit, before Lethem and TJ both said "Shakes up," at the same time.

Caleb groaned. "Now why the hell didn't I see that?"

"It's all right, Cale – you're distracted. Happens to the best of us," TJ told him. He sat down at the table, choosing a seat that was of necessity crammed quite close to Brennan's.

"So, Dr. Brennan – you've now officially skipped out on The Mendel Ministry twice… One more time and Caleb's gonna start thinking you have something against him."

"You really have to hear them play at least once, T," Jamie told her. "Caleb set the place on fire last night."

At the look on Brennan's face, Caleb quickly added, "Metaphorically speaking."

She nodded. "Of course." Though to be honest, she had had visions of the Llewellyn Estate going up in flames. She glanced up to see if Booth had caught this, but he appeared to be absorbed in a conversation at the stove with Lethem.

"If you're playing again this week, I'll make more of an effort to come," she promised. She hesitated, trying to think of some way to bring the conversation back to Doug, who by this time had persuaded Darla back to his side and was whispering something in the girl's ear.

"So, how long have you guys had the band?" Booth spoke up, surprising her – she'd thought he wasn't paying attention.

TJ considered the question, not looking nearly as comfortable addressing Booth as he had addressing her.

"I don't know – I've been at it a while, but Cale's pretty new."

Caleb nodded. "Yeah, I just stepped in 'til Doug realizes this whole surgery thing's going nowhere."

"So the band started with you and Dr. Murray?" Brennan asked TJ, noting that Booth didn't look surprised by this information. "How long have you two known each other?"

She caught Booth's eye and he gave her that little smile, the one that told her to tread cautiously. She nodded very slightly, careful not to look too interested in what Doug was saying.

"We grew up together. Well – started out growing up together. Then TJ left for a while…" he looked away for a moment, which Brennan had learned meant he was leaving something out. She didn't pursue it for the moment, waiting for him to finish. "Once he came back for college, it seemed like a prime time to get a band going."

"But you've lived in this area your whole life?" she asked, then immediately regretted it when she saw the look in his eyes. Guarded, suddenly.

He smiled, his eyes sliding from hers now that everyone was looking at him. "Wow, how'd I suddenly become the star of the show?" When he realized she wasn't going to withdraw her question, he paused before continuing uncomfortably. "I've stayed on the West Coast for most of my schooling, yeah. Contrary to popular belief, we do actually have some good medical schools out here."

She started to follow up with a second question, but was interrupted by Booth.

"So – Bones here says you two'll be teaching next week's workshop together," he said, speaking to Lethem, but including the entire room in the comment.

Doug looked distinctly relieved to have the focus taken off him, and she realized with a mix of admiration and perhaps a tiny tinge of resentment, that Booth was correct – best not to pursue a conversation with the doctor too doggedly, to avoid making him nervous.

Lethem nodded. "That we are. You get a chance to look at the manuscripts, T?"

"I have – though only briefly. They actually seem fairly good."

"That's only because you've been hit with Farnham's sludge all week – but yeah, they're not bad. Part of the deal when I take a gig like this is that I get to handpick my students."

"Which is completely unfair," Jamie added.

"I make no apologies for my methods," Lethem said, turning around to flip a pancake before he continued.

Beside him, Booth was sautéing steak and onions. His sweatpants rode low on his hips, and Brennan thought about how out of place he should look, in his grey t-shirt with the FBI logo and his bare feet, amidst a group of overdressed, hygienically challenged academics. And how, surprisingly, he did not.

"We probably shouldn't give away too much of the process, though, since we've got one of the chosen among us," Lethem continued.

Brennan looked around the room. "Where? I thought I had the most updated roster."

TJ grinned. "Last minute add. We were talking on the way up the mountain last night, and David said he thought he could pull some strings, maybe get me in."

"I should've consulted you first, Temperance, I know," Lethem said quickly, not really looking at all sorry as he purported to apologize to her. "But I figured one more student shouldn't be too much of a load."

She shook her head. "No, of course not – I enjoyed having TJ with us last week, I'm sure he'll add a great deal going forward. And this way, I'll have an opportunity to read more of his manuscript." She looked at Lethem. "It's an intriguing premise."

"Which one are you working on now, Teej?" Doug asked. "The psycho killer surgeon, still?"

TJ nodded. "Write what you know, know what you write," he quipped, obviously a slight directed at the doctor.

"I still say as soon as you hang up the fiction hat and start writing your real life, you'll be picked up in a second. Your story would hit the bestseller's list the week it came out," Doug said.

The room fell silent, suddenly, and TJ look unquestionably uncomfortable.

"What's so interesting about TJ's life?" Darla asked. It was the first time Brennan had heard the girl speak aloud, and she found herself surprised at the low, smoky timbre of her voice. The girl pushed her blonde, blonde hair out of her eyes and looked around the room, as though just realizing there was a conversation taking place.

"Nothing – " TJ said instantly, only to be interrupted by Doug.

"Murder, mystery, and mayhem from the word go," the doctor said. TJ looked down at the table uncomfortably, his fist clenching and unclenching reflexively – a gesture Brennan was sure he was unaware of.

"Knock it off, Doug," Caleb said quietly.

Doug's eyes widened innocently. "What? I'm just saying, he could be a millionaire. He's got the writing chops, and everybody knows the public eats up true crime."

"He's exaggerating," TJ explained uncomfortably, speaking directly at Brennan. "My life's not really so different from yours."

She smiled at this, unable to help but feel badly for his obvious discomfort, even as she began considering what his story might be.

"If that's the case, I'd say they're probably not wrong in saying the world would be interested," she told him with a sympathetic smile.

He met her eye, and something passed between them – an implicit understanding that she couldn't quite put into words, but nonetheless felt with surprising depth. Lethem cleared his throat.

"And on that note, what's say we eat? I'm starting to lose steam here – I'm too old for all this midnight mountain climbing, drinking all night, carousing all day shit."

* * *

The house was empty by nine, with the exception of a sink full of dirty dishes and a counter of half-eaten food. It seemed that the long night caught up with everyone at approximately the same time, so that halfway through the meal the chatter had effectively stopped and no one seemed particularly hungry. With the exception, that is, of Doug and Lethem – who seemed to have superior constitutions, despite Lethem's insistence that the night had been too much for him. Booth and Lethem spoke a great deal about FBI protocol, apparently for a book the author was researching, while Doug simply ate voraciously and seemed intent on avoiding further conversation with Brennan, choosing instead to read the paper or comment occasionally on the discussion Lethem was having.

Just as they were leaving, Lethem waited until Booth was in the living room talking to Jamie about her car (about which he'd shown great enthusiasm, as soon as he learned its make and model) before he approached Brennan with an unmistakably predatory smile.

"So, how long's your partner in town?" he asked, though she was sure he knew the answer.

"He leaves tomorrow morning," she told him.

His body language was still casual, leaning back against the counter rather than making any attempt to invade her space. "Good," he said. Maintaining eye contact all the while. "He seems like a nice guy, but… Well." His smile widened, and she marveled at how assured he seemed. "It's tough to make a move when there's a six-foot Fed standing next to you."

"Six-foot-one, actually," Booth said, leaning casually in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

Brennan rolled her eyes. How long had she been single? And now, suddenly, there were men coming out of the walls.

"Perhaps we should continue this discussion tomorrow," she told Lethem. "I'll see you at the workshops."

He left without argument. Afterward, Booth just shook his head, standing in the kitchen surveying the mess that had been left behind.

"Jesus, Bones. How the hell does anybody get any work done at these things when they're spending all their time hittin' on you? And what shot does a hard-working Fed from Philly have, against skeezy malcontents with no respect for the guy code?"

She trapped him against the kitchen sink, snaking her arms around his middle, searching his eyes. He was smiling, though she thought she detected a trace of genuine insecurity before the look vanished and she silently chastised herself. Seeley Booth was hardly the type of man to be insecure about dating someone like her.

"I don't know what that is."

"The _guy code_, Bones," he rolled his eyes. "You know… The one that says you don't hit on another guy's girl while the guy is right in the next room."

"Firstly," she looked at him seriously. "You have to stop referring to me as your girl – you did it in Maine, and you're doing it now. I'm no one's _girl," _she emphasized the word, rolling her eyes as she did so. "And secondly, we're not supposed to be together – we've been insisting we aren't since you arrived here. How was he supposed to know this 'guy code' was even applicable?"

He leaned in and kissed her nose quickly, as though he couldn't quite help himself. "Trust me, he knew. _Everybody _knew – how could they not? Every time I turned around, you were undressing me with your eyes. No offense, Bones, but you really suck at this whole flying-under-the-radar thing."

"What about you? You're the one who quite obviously groped me while I was trying to get to the refrigerator – I'm fairly certain everyone saw that."

He grinned. "Well – yeah, you could be right there. Either way, the point is, Lethem's a sleaze. Forget what I said about him being my favorite writer, the guy's a loser."

She laughed, unable to help herself, but Booth just glared at her.

"Go ahead and laugh – I'm serious here. Who shows up first thing on a Sunday morning, trashes the kitchen, hits on the hostess, and then just takes off and leaves her to clean up the mess?"

While he was railing against writers in general and Lethem in particular, she reached her hand under his t-shirt, running circles along his back with her fingernails. He was still leaning against the sink – she pressed herself against him until she could feel him harden, and began kissing his neck.

When he didn't respond, she stepped back. He was watching her with a quirked eyebrow, clearly trying very hard to appear stern.

"What the hell are you doin', Bones? David Lethem comes over and gets you all hot and bothered and I'm, what? Just supposed to drop everything and let you have your way with me, I guess."

It was fairly clear that he was kidding – at least, she hoped that he was. After a moment's debate, she caught the slight smile on his lips and realized that, yes, he was teasing. She resumed kissing his neck, reaching her hand past the elastic band of his sweatpants. He groaned when she began stroking him, hardening fully at her touch.

"Maybe we should let the dishes soak," she said quietly, running her tongue along the ridge of his ear, her hand maintaining a steady rhythm that was definitely leaving him breathless.

He let out a ragged sigh. "Yeah – I guess it couldn't hurt."

They started in the kitchen, made their way through the living room and up the stairs, to the shower and eventually the bed, losing clothing and inhibitions along the way. It was nearly noon by the time they were finished, lying in bed with the blankets tossed aside and both of them breathing hard, a light sheen of perspiration on Booth's forehead and chest, his hand resting lightly at the nape of her neck. She was keenly aware of the passage of time, suddenly – her alarm clock counting out the seconds on the nightstand, the sun climbing higher in the sky, Booth suddenly very quiet beside her.

"What did you think of Doug Murray?" she asked suddenly.

She raised her head to look at him, noting that he didn't seem surprised by the question. For some reason, she was pleased by this - by the thought that they could go from incredible sex straight back to the case, without explanation. He considered the question for a moment before responding.

"Hard to say – it's hard to say with any of them, really. He fits the profile, though."

She nodded. "And he's certainly strong enough. He was investigated when Rachel Martin first disappeared, of course, but they could have missed something."

There was a pause, before Booth studied her for a moment. Gauging something, before he spoke. "What do you know about TJ?" he asked.

She furrowed her brow, surprised at how much the question bothered her. "Nothing," she admitted. "I thought he was Caleb's friend, but he's apparently closer to Doug's age."

Booth nodded. "I did some checking on the other students, but you never mentioned him, really – I'll have Artie check him out." He hesitated again. "No offense, Bones, but it seems like he's kind of got a thing for you. I mean – not a pain-in-the-ass, just-because-I-can lusting thing like Lethem has. But, you know… a real thing."

She wasn't certain what he was asking – whether it was reciprocated, or merely if she'd noticed it. She sat up, gathering the sheet around her as she considered this.

"It seemed harmless at first, but he does appear to be more attentive recently. You think there could be a connection?"

There was a time when she would have dismissed the thought outright – but then, there was also a time when she would have dismissed the thought of her favorite intern apprenticing with a cannibalistic serial killer. She'd learned to trust Booth, it seemed, on any number of levels in recent months.

He shrugged. "It's pretty hard to say, really – I don't know the guy yet. But he's definitely watching you, and right now that's all I care about. Watch yourself around him, all right?"

Both somewhat sobered now, they got dressed and went downstairs to clean up the kitchen. While Booth washed the dishes and Brennan dried, they discussed the case in more depth before moving to the living room with all of the files. Her hand continued to ache, time continued to pass, and it seemed to her suddenly that the case was simply too large to get an accurate overview. Too many victims, too many suspects, far too few leads.

In the living room, Booth removed a large, framed Ansel Adams print from the wall, and handed her a stack of index cards and a marker.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm a visual thinker, Bones – this thing's too big to just talk about, we need to see what it looks like."

"You can't write on my wall."

He rolled his eyes, shook his head at her. "What do you think the cards are for? Just write down what I tell you – you'll see."

She made a face. "Why do I have to do the writing?"

"Because it was my idea, all right Bones? This is the way I work – I pace, come up with connections. You write them down."

"I'm not your secretary, Booth. Besides, you have better handwriting than me." She waved her hand at him. "And my hand is still sore."

He sighed in exasperation, but he did take the index cards and the marker. "Fine. I'll write. But that means you've gotta put everything up – where I tell you, all right?"

She nodded, pleased with herself. He handed her the files, and instructed her to tape photos of the first three victims at the far left of the blank wall. She did so – Michelle Lowell at the top, Jess Aldridge below, Alyson Hamlin beneath that. Booth provided index cards with the dates that each woman was taken, and the dates they were discovered. Then, she sat beside him on the floor in front of the couch, gazing up at their handiwork.

"Now what do we do?"

"We think, Bones. What do we know about these three?"

"They were all career women in their thirties. All taken from their places of work, all discovered within forty-eight hours of their disappearance."

He nodded, tapping the marker lightly against his knee. "But no notes from the killer on those first three vics."

"They didn't start finding the notes until Alice Wilson, in 2003," she said thoughtfully. "Then after that, they found notes at the sites where the next five women were taken."

Another nod. He stood, taking the files from her and beginning to tape more photos to the wall. Though this was technically supposed to be her job, she didn't argue with him, focused instead on the grim tableau before them.

She took the index cards and wrote down the contents of the first note, which she'd committed to memory, then handed it to Booth. He smirked, squinting at her scrawled handwriting.

"What the hell's this?" he asked.

"It's the first rhyme," she said self-consciously. "I told you, my hand hurts. It's difficult to write this way."

He made no comment beyond a slight smile, instead taking the card and taping it below Alice Wilson's photo.

"And the notes that have 'Bred in the Bone' in it – they started when?"

"2004 – with the victim after Rachel Martin, Valerie Andrews. The first two notes had different messages…"

"And the last three were all the same – all with the name of your book in them." He looked concerned, his forehead suddenly furrowed as he contemplated the photos more closely.

"We don't know that he was referencing my book at all, really," Brennan insisted – a thought she'd had more than once since she'd begun investigating the case. "It could be a coincidence."

Booth shook his head. "That was right after your book came out. You fit his vic profile perfectly… And 'Bred in the bone' isn't exactly a phrase you just hear around town."

She'd come to much the same conclusion in her own ruminations.

"What's Washington's theory on why the killer didn't leave notes at the other sites?" he asked, after another moment's pause.

"The first three women's bodies were discovered before anyone knew they'd disappeared, so the police didn't search the site where they'd been taken until forty-eight hours or more after the fact."

He looked skeptical, considering this. "So, there might have been notes there, but no one found them." He stood in front of the photos for a few moments, his hands in his pockets, studying the women.

"I don't buy it," he finally decided. "That whole theory Sweets came up with makes more sense to me – something happened to change the balance of power between the two killers… Once that happened, the second guy was the one who came up with the notes."

"So why did they stop after 2006? Washington seems convinced that the four women after Camden Marx were also victims of the Lady Killer, but the last note was found at the Nevada college where Professor Marx was taken."

He nodded, but made no comment. She got up and stood beside him, following his gaze. There were three distinct groups of photos: the first three victims had photos taken shortly after the women's deaths, while the next five women's photos were taken several years after the murders, when the mass grave was found just a month ago. And then the final six photos – all taken while the women were still alive, shortly before their disappearances.

"So, are you going to check TJ's alibi for the disappearances?" she asked, her gaze fixed suddenly on Rachel Martin's photo.

He followed her gaze to the wall, then looked back at her – quiet suddenly, withdrawn. Unreadable. He leaned slightly into her, so that their shoulders were touching.

"Yeah – I'm gonna have Artie run some stuff tonight. He'll check on TJ and Doug, and do a little more checking on Farnham." Another pause. "That reminds me – I kind of invited Art and Mickey for dinner tonight. They won't stay late, but I figured it'd be a good idea to make sure we're all on the same page here. And I was thinking we should give Washington a call."

Booth had told her about spotting Mickey and Washington together the previous evening – and while she still didn't see the significance herself, she could tell that it bothered him a great deal. She smiled, studying him knowingly.

"You just want to see what happens when you get Washington and Mickey in the same room together."

He didn't return her smile, his gaze returning instead to the wall. He shrugged, serious now. "Couldn't hurt, right?"

* * *

At two, Booth drove her to Portland Presbyterian Hospital. At some point while they were going over the murders, he'd gotten progressively quieter. Now, on the drive over, he barely said a word. Brennan was preoccupied with her own thoughts, strangely anxious about going to the place where Rachel Martin had disappeared. Just before they arrived, she saw Booth glance at her quickly as he was parking the car. He put it in park, then looked directly at her. Studying her, in that way he had.

"You doing okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "It's just a case, Booth."

He shook his head, with a soft laugh. He didn't smile, however, and the laugh was notably lacking in humor. "Sure, Bones. Just a case. You ready?"

The hospital was small, and dated back to the turn of the twentieth century. There were actually two buildings, the first of which was the oldest, and was now apparently used only for administrative purposes. That building was brick, with steep granite steps and a sense of history about it that Brennan found very appealing. The hospital building was newer, though still small, hardly state of the art. They went in the patient entrance, which Brennan noted was virtually empty – just as Doug Murray had predicted.

After they'd given her name and information at the intake desk, Brennan sat beside Booth in the generic waiting room for only a moment before she stood.

"I need to use the restroom," she told him.

He looked at her knowingly. "Sure you do."

"You can come with me, if you'd like."

He rolled his eyes. "Sit down, Bones. Dr. Murray's gonna be here any second – just wait for him."

"I won't be long."

He sighed, but he still followed her – just as she'd known he would. She waited until the receptionist was busy at her desk before she slipped through the double doors leading deeper into the hospital, Booth by her side.

It looked like any other hospital – sterile white walls, sterile linoleum floors. Brennan had been in any number of buildings exactly like it; she didn't feel out of place in the slightest, and couldn't understand why Booth seemed so nervous.

"I just want to look around a little. It's a public building, Booth – we have every right to be here."

"Not in this part, we don't," he insisted, whispering at her loudly. "This is where the doctors belong – civilians are only supposed to be back here after they've been shot or blown up."

He relaxed slightly when they returned to carpeted corridors that were clearly meant for patients and visitors, rather than hospital staff only. Brennan was about to admit defeat and suggest they return to the waiting room when they rounded a corner, and she noticed a large planter of orchids beneath a framed photograph and accompanying plaque.

It made no sense that the photograph should affect her the way that it did – she had, after all, just spent the afternoon examining post-mortem photos of the same woman. But, regardless, Brennan suddenly found it difficult to take a full breath, standing there with Rachel and Abby Martin staring back at her. In the picture, Rachel was wearing her surgical scrubs. Abby was younger – likely only three or four, also wearing scrubs, though hers were several sizes too large. Both of them were laughing, oblivious to the camera. Mother and daughter were caught in profile, Rachel kneeling in front of Abby, straightening her cap.

She felt Booth's hand at the small of her back. Realized he was saying something, though she couldn't seem to take her eyes from the photo. Her eyes were welling, she realized – she brushed away the tears, still locked on the image.

"Temperance," she heard Booth say, once she'd finally focused on his voice. It took a surprising amount of effort to turn her attention back to him. Once she had, she realized that he was watching her closely, the concern evident on his face.

"Come on, baby. We should get back to the waiting room."

She nodded, though she lingered until he took her hand in his. She held on tightly, leaning into his shoulder as they walked away.

"We have to catch them, Booth," she said softly, once they were well down the hall and she'd managed to get her voice back. "We can't let them do this to anyone else. Never again."

He draped his arm over her shoulders and nodded. "We will, Bones. We will."

Dr. Murray was just entering the waiting room when they returned. He smiled pleasantly when he saw both of them, showing no obvious signs of fatigue despite having been up all of Saturday night.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm glad you took me up on my offer. I'm not on the board 'til three, so we've got a little time – I'll escort you up to radiology myself, VIP style."

He turned to Booth with a professional smile, completely different from the loutish, sullen man they'd met at breakfast.

"You can wait here if you'd like, or come on up with us – your choice."

"I'll come up," Booth said without hesitation. "Waiting rooms make me nervous."

Inevitably, Brennan was required to sit in a wheelchair on the way to radiology, which was something she loathed. Doug pushed her while Booth walked alongside, listening as the doctor gave them a brief history of the hospital. Walking down the long, carpeted corridor to the elevators, Brennan looked to her left and realized that the alcove containing Rachel Martin's memorial was coming up. She glanced at Booth – at his expression, she realized he'd noticed the same thing.

He paused, indicating the alcove with a nod. "We were wandering around looking for intake earlier and saw that – isn't that the doctor whose body they just found, about a month ago? I remember reading something about it."

Brennan wished she could see Doug's face as he answered, but it was too awkward to turn in the wheelchair to look at him. She settled for his words, trying to gauge his tone as he spoke.

"Yeah – it was pretty horrific, actually," he said, and he certainly sounded sincere. "I mean, I knew something must've happened to her – everybody knew that, Dr. Martin wasn't the kind to just cut and run. But there's always that hope, you know, that maybe she was still out there."

"So, you knew her, then," Brennan said.

"Yeah, of course," he replied, as though to suggest anything else would be absurd. "She was Chief of Surgery, I was a resident for a year before she disappeared. I knew both her and her daughter – well, actually. The whole thing was tragic – when something like that strikes so close to home, with a woman as strong and vibrant as Dr. Martin, you can't help but be changed by it."

This time she did turn around. Doug was talking directly to Booth, all of his attention focused on the conversation.

"How did it change you?" Brennan asked.

Booth laughed a little, giving her a look. "Easy, Bones – the doc's just trying to do you a favor here, let's not grill the man about something that's obviously pretty personal."

"But – " Brennan started to attempt to justify her actions, when Doug interrupted.

"No, it's all right – really. I don't mind. It was a fairly standard reaction… Clichéd, even. I just started thinking about my own mortality, about how vulnerable we all are. I wasn't exactly a ninety-eight-pound weakling before, but I definitely hadn't seen the inside of a gym in a few years. I couldn't have defended myself if my life depended on it, back then. It just got me thinking."

"So the bodybuilding is new," Brennan surmised.

"Yeah," Doug agreed. "Last three or four years, I've just been doing a lot of training – strength, endurance, flexibility."

Booth nodded. "Well – I guess something like that happens, you try to take something good out of it."

They resumed their trek to the elevators in silence, which Brennan broke only as the doors opened on the third floor. She'd been biding her time, debating about whether or not to question any further, but she found she couldn't remain silent.

"What about Abby – Dr. Martin's daughter? Did you ever see her again? Follow up? Do you know what happened to her?"

She didn't look at him, though she desperately wanted to. She simply sat, tensed, waiting. She thought Booth might interrupt, thinking she'd been too direct, but he did not.

"She didn't have any family – Dr. Martin was all she had left, so she went to the state. I actually stayed in touch for a while – we'd email back and forth, every so often I'd get a package from her. But then a year or so passed, and I didn't hear from her after that. I don't know what happened to her… I imagine she's still out there, being Abby. She was always a smart kid. Tough."

Brennan made a conscious effort to remain quiet, rather than blurt out that Abby was, in fact, neither strong nor tough, but had died on the streets, alone. She caught Booth's eye, and he gave her a slight smile of encouragement, or sympathy, or… something. To her surprise, it was Booth who pursued the matter further.

"So, usually with a crime like this, the killer knows the vic – or at least they're acquaintances, you know? A lot of times, they've even had contact within the last forty-eight hours before they're taken. You think it could've been someone at the hospital?"

They were halfway down the corridor, passing nurses and orderlies along the way. Doug stopped the wheelchair abruptly, and Brennan turned to see him studying Booth with unmistakable suspicion.

"Are they investigating me again? I mean – is that why you're here? Because I answered all their questions back then. I cooperated fully, and I was cleared."

Booth shook his head quickly, looking sheepish. "No – no, I'm just here to see Bones, that's it. But I guess, you know, you can take the man out of the FBI… It just got me thinking, is all."

Doug nodded, very guarded now. "Well, I don't know if I'm comfortable speculating – not with an open investigation."

Booth shrugged. "Sure, of course. I can respect that. How about we just get those x-rays taken, and you can get on with your day. We don't want to hold you up anymore than we have to."

She'd seen Booth use this maneuver before – apparently abandoning the topic, allowing the suspect to come back to it of their own volition. When they'd first started working together, it used to drive her crazy… Now, she'd learned to recognize the signs.

Sure enough, just before they entered radiology, Doug said speculatively, "So, I never heard that before – what you said about a victim having contact with the killer or whatever in that last forty-eight hours. But, honestly, Dr. Martin only spent time at the hospital and with Abby. That last night, TJ was even trying to get me to bring her out after surgery, but I knew there wasn't a chance in hell."

Brennan felt a leaden weight in her stomach. "Why would TJ want you to ask your supervisor out socially?"

He shrugged. They went into the radiology lab, which was dark – he turned on the overhead light, and indicated the clock.

"I told someone to meet us up here at two-thirty. They should be here any minute now."

Brennan nodded, hoping she didn't look as impatient as she felt. Several seconds passed, before Doug returned to her question.

"It was no big deal – TJ's always had a thing for smart, attractive women." He smiled at Booth, as though they were sharing a joke. "Obviously, the guy's got a type."

Booth returned the smile, though Brennan noted that it didn't look genuine in the least.

"Yeah, I noticed," he said. "So, did Dr. Martin and TJ ever, you know, seal the deal? I mean, she must've been a good ten years older than him, right? Or was this just another one of those May-December, never-gonna-happen kinds of things?"

He glanced at the clock again. "You know what, I really should get prepped for surgery – I've gotta run. I'll just give Rose a call, make sure she's on her way. She'll take good care of you."

She caught Booth's eye just before she pressed the issue, and stopped herself. "That would be fine - thank you, I know you must be very busy."

The doctor shrugged. "It wasn't a problem at all – I'm a real fan of your work, it's an honor to be able to help out. I'm sure that hand's fine, but let me know if there's anything more I can do."

Just before he left the room, he stopped. Turned around, clearly not certain he should say whatever he was about to volunteer.

"Listen, whether this is just idle curiosity or you guys are actually working the case, there's one guy you should check out. I know his alibi seemed solid back in '04, but I was never sold on it."

"Who's that?" Booth asked, no longer looking casual in the least.

"Ryan Jacobs," Doug answered promptly. "He was in surgery with us that night. Quiet guy, kept to himself. Started working with us that year, and he'd actually given his notice a couple weeks before Dr. Martin disappeared. He left the hospital a week after, and that was it. We never heard from him again."

She studied him for a moment, considering this. She remembered only brief mention of Jacobs in the original files, and no reference to anything as memorable as a suspect disappearing during an investigation. None of which, of course, she could say to Doug Murray.

"Ryan Jacobs, huh?" Booth said, notably noncommittal. "Interesting." He reached out and shook the doctor's hand, indicating the door. "Thanks again for all your help. We'll be in touch."

Brennan stood, tiring of being relegated to the wheelchair. "Yes – thank you. I'll let you know how the x-rays come out."

* * *

As she'd suspected, her hand was not broken – merely bruised, but she was honestly grateful for the injury, since it had given her an excellent excuse to question Doug Murray and learn more about the case. In the car on the way back to the house, Booth remained quiet – Brennan was focused primarily on their investigation, though it was difficult to ignore the fact that her partner seemed too preoccupied to join in her theorizing. It was only when she mentioned a particular facet of the case that she'd found frustrating thus far that he finally seemed to focus on what she was saying.

"If we could involve the others from the Jeffersonian, they could use the reports from the medical examiners and the original investigations to recreate the attacks more fully – the way we did on that Las Vegas case, remember?"

He parked the car in their driveway, and sat there for a moment. thinking about this. "You mean – like where they were hit, what kind of force was used…"

She nodded eagerly, relieved to find him engaged once more. "Precisely. I know not everyone has that degree of technology available to them, and of course some of the methods Angela uses are still considered somewhat experimental. But I've always found them to be very helpful."

He massaged his left anterior trapezius muscle – an area in which she'd noticed he carried a great deal of tension. Sighed heavily, as though exasperated.

"That'd be great, but Washington's the one calling the shots on this thing. And as long as your role is still just as bait instead of a second on the investigation…" he shrugged, his frustration quite obvious. "You can't really pull the squints into this."

He didn't move to get out of the car, however. Instead, he sat there sucking on his upper lip – thinking. After a few seconds, he threw up his hands.

"Y'know what? Fuck it. If Washington doesn't have a team that can handle this, it'd be stupid not to get the squints involved. They can keep quiet about the whole thing, right? Once I'm back in D.C., I'll talk to Hodgins and Cam about it."

"Couldn't you get in trouble for that?" she asked.

The way he avoided her eye was answer enough, despite his cavalier response. "It's fine, Bones. Don't worry about me. It might piss Washington off a little but, hey…" he grinned, but there was still no humor in his eyes. "That's a chance I'm willing to take."

They took a nap when they returned from the hospital – or what Booth insisted _would be_ a nap, but which actually just turned into an afternoon of sex and laughter and whispered confessions between wrinkled sheets, before they finally got out of bed again at five that evening to shower and prepare for dinner with Art, Mickey, and Washington. They ordered Thai food from a restaurant on 23rd Avenue, just a few blocks from the house, but then after they'd already placed the order Brennan decided she wanted to stop by the Llewellyn Estate to get her room assignment for workshops the following day. At the suggestion that they split up for a couple of hours, Booth immediately balked.

"Booth, I just want some exercise," she insisted. "And I'd feel more comfortable about starting the workshop tomorrow if I knew the layout of the space."

"I don't know, I thought we got a pretty good workout today, Bones," he said – attempting to lighten the moment, but she could see that he was genuinely displeased with her plan. "If we just take the car, we can do both things, right? Together. Hit the Llewellyn's, head to the Thai place, get back in plenty of time to hide the silver from Mickey and Art."

"But it defeats the purpose of getting out and getting some fresh air," she returned.

"What the hell's the point of renting a Prius if you're just gonna walk everywhere, Bones? You might as well get a Navigator, if it's just gonna stay in the driveway."

She sighed. Fixed him with her most levelheaded gaze, raising an eyebrow at him. This was actually a tactic he'd used on her many times, but she wasn't above turning the tables.

"Seeley," she said, watching his expression change when she used his first name. "I'll be fine. I have my gun. I have my cell phone. I'll put the tracker in my ear. You'll be back in D.C. tomorrow, and then what am I supposed to do? Stay locked in the house until you return?"

They were having the discussion in the bedroom. Booth still had a towel around his shoulders following their shower, and was wearing his sweatpants and nothing else. She had on only the grey FBI t-shirt he'd worn earlier, her hair still wet. She'd discovered that without a significant use of some type of product, his hair had a natural tendency to either curl or stand straight on end, and that in the comfort of home, he tended to shy away from shoes and socks whenever possible. She expected him to laugh off her comment, but instead he remained serious.

"It's not the worst idea I've heard," he admitted, speaking almost under his breath. After a moment or two, he relented. "But yeah – you're right, _Temperance,_" he stressed the name with a slight smirk, indicating that he wasn't oblivious to her use of his tactic. "I'm not gonna be here, you should be able to come and go as you please. But if you're not back by seven, I'm comin' after you."

She grinned, feeling undeniably victorious. "I'll be back by seven. In fact, if you don't get dressed, I bet I'll be back before you."

He looked at her speculatively. "You bet, huh? All right… You're on. I get back before you, then when we get back to D.C. I get you for a whole weekend. With no work. No bones, no blood, no disgusting maggot-filled corpses. Wherever I want us to go, whatever I wanna do."

"And if I win?" she asked, unable to hide her interest in the challenge.

He shrugged. "Same deal. You get here first, and you get to call the shots for a weekend – I'll go to some old bone lecture, a crappy movie with subtitles…" He grinned. "Or, y'know, you could just have your way with me for the weekend. Whatever you want."

She tilted her head, held his eye. He held out his hand and she shook it firmly, unable to refrain from grinning. "All right – you're on. Whoever gets back first gets the weekend."

They stood there for a moment – Booth still holding onto her hand, their eyes still locked, until she raised her eyebrows in question. "So… When do we start?"

His grin became a smirk, one eyebrow quirked. He shrugged. "Now's as good a time as any." He pulled her in for a kiss, then promptly disengaged and raced for his clothes. "See ya at the finish line, Bones."

She knew, of course, that it was all merely a ploy to ensure that she take as little time as possible at the Llewellyn's. Regardless, she could never resist a challenge – she found that familiar bubble of childish excitement welling in her chest as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and selected jeans and sneakers, choosing to keep Booth's t-shirt on despite the fact that it honestly would have been more acceptable to wear something of her own. Booth was out the door five minutes before her, but he would have to wait for them to have the food ready at the Thai place, so she decided she still had a chance to win.

Resisting the urge to break into a run, she nevertheless set a good pace on her way to the estate. It was six-thirty on a Sunday evening, the streets quiet but the August air still warm. The Estate was dark when she got there, no sign of life on the front steps or the lawn or any of the other places typically teeming with life.

Despite the race, Brennan found herself hesitating at the front door, thinking suddenly of the photos now adorning her living room wall – the women who had once believed themselves immune to the predators of the world. There was even a part of her – a very deep part, one to which she certainly would never lay claim – that hoped the entrance would be locked. And, unable to gain entry, she could simply turn around and hurry home. Win the race. Return to Booth.

She tried the door. When it swung open easily, she didn't move – leaning forward only slightly to survey the shadowed foyer now open to her. She checked her gun. The tracking device in her ear. Foolishly, childishly, whispered 'Paladin' under her breath – as though the word alone would somehow keep her safe. She took her cell phone out of her purse, and held it as she went inside.

Booth would be gone in just a few hours, she reminded herself. It would be up to her – the very capable Dr. Temperance Brennan – to look after herself. She had no intention of falling apart when that time came.

She closed the door behind her, slightly jarred when the echo of door against doorframe broke the stillness, then stood in the shadows for a moment, reorienting herself to the old mansion. A large, stained glass window stood over the entryway, infusing the scant light inside the building with hues of rose and lavender, tangerine and deep blue. Particles of dust were visible in the prisms of light. There was no sound, beyond her own somewhat ragged breathing. Brennan checked her watch, forcing herself to refocus on the task at hand.

After a moment, she went to the information desk beside the entrance and selected an overview of the week's activities and a list of room assignments, noting that she and Lethem had been given the sun porch overlooking the rose garden at the back of the house – undoubtedly a highly prized location. She was pleased to note that Jamie had been relocated from the annex to the parlor where she and Farnham had been teaching. It seemed that everyone would be happy in the upcoming week.

Booth had just a few blocks to walk to retrieve the Thai food, but when she'd placed the order, they had said the food wouldn't be ready until close to seven. Which meant, she still had a little bit of time. After another brief internal debate, she decided she would just take a moment to actually go to the sun porch and refresh her memory about the layout. With a final glance at her watch, she began navigating the labyrinth of corridors leading toward the back of the house, refusing to acknowledge her growing anxiety.

She realized two or three minutes into her trek, standing at the center of a darkened, carpeted hallway whose equally dark paintings seemed singularly unfamiliar, that she had taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. She turned around and retraced her steps, a moment later returning to the lighter and more familiar, central corridor. She checked the map she held, realized her error, and started in the opposite direction. Well aware that she was losing time and, honestly, there was very little to justify how committed she was to attaining what was really a very insignificant goal, she continued regardless. What would Sweets say about this sudden insistence that she see the room on her own, despite the advancing hour and her undeniable vulnerability, she wondered? Something ridiculous and irrelevant, no doubt - she pushed the thought aside instantly. She wanted to see the room; that was all.

She hurried down a half-flight of five wooden stairs, past a series of closed doors, and noted that the room in which Lethem had given his seminar was open. It seemed to her that she'd noted a second exit in the room – a way to actually leave the building and, in all likelihood, get a better perspective on how to find this elusive sun porch. She stepped past the threshold, through the double doors. Lethem's dry erase board was still at the front of the room, _The Unreliable Narrator _scrawled across the top in black marker. Just as she'd thought, to the left of the room was a door leading to the gardens outside – she breathed a sigh of relief. Whether or not she found the sun porch, this would be a simpler way to get outside and return home again.

Before she left, however, she paused at the dry erase board once more. Three questions were written in red ink beneath the title, partially erased and therefore almost illegible. Nevertheless, Brennan pieced them together with little difficulty.

_How do you establish trust? _was the first, but the next questions were the ones that made her pause. _Who is truly credible? What is the one fact you won't question? _

She was still considering this, not even certain what it was, exactly, that struck a chord, when the sound of the doors crashing closed behind her sent her heart racing triple-time and adrenaline flooding her veins. She whirled around to see Jason Farnham standing at the entrance, the left side of his face visibly bruised, obviously swollen. She clutched her cell phone, her finger already on speed dial.

"It's your day off – you should be resting," he said, his voice echoing through the empty space.

She nodded. "I just came to get my room assignment." She noted that her voice sounded strong, unfazed, and for this she was grateful. "Then I'm headed back to the house. My partner's waiting for me," she added.

He began walking toward her. Both hands visible, and no weapons that she could see. She glanced at the side door – her other mode of exit, should one be necessary. Her heart was still beating too fast, but her hands were steady at her side.

"Did you know they fired me?" he asked. He was wearing his writer t-shirt again, though it was filthy now. His curly hair was slightly matted, the absurd hat he usually wore discarded.

"I didn't," she said, honestly surprised. Not dismayed, by any means, but still surprised.

Rather than take a step back, she drew herself up to her full height and waited for him to reach her, as he continued his approach. Even as he moved, she was calculating her attack – it wouldn't require more than two to three well placed blows, if in fact any should be required. A knee to the groin, perhaps a snap kick to the abdomen – nothing grittier would be required, for someone like this. She thought of Kenton, inexplicably, and found herself more shaken by the memory than she would have liked.

"Did you talk to Philip?" he asked. He didn't seem inebriated – clearly angry, but his eyes were focused and his steps were even.

She shook her head. "No. I planned to," she told him honestly. "But I went home instead."

He stood too close when he reached her, obviously trying to make himself taller, trying to appear more powerful than he was.

"I wanted to talk to you last night," he said.

He was quiet, now – she didn't like it that he was this still, as it was not something she'd come to associate with Jason Farnham. Lies and innuendo, hyperbole and flashes of temper were all acceptable, but this seemed considerably more dangerous.

"I need to meet my partner," she said, for the first time feeling as though it might be better to flee rather than stand and fight.

She took a step toward the door, and was surprised at the speed with which he blocked her path.

"I just want to talk," he said, his voice still tinged with that indefinable, eerie calm. "I thought we could spend the week getting to know each other – it never occurred to me that we'd teach side by side, and you would despise me. Ruin my career."

Her own temper was beginning to rise. "Jason, get out of my way," she said firmly.

The side exit was no more than five paces from her – she pushed past him, only to have him grab her swollen hand and whirl her around. She caught her breath at the pain, but didn't hesitate before she raised her knee with a single, violent movement and connected with his testicles. He fell to the ground instantly, and she turned and made for the door without waiting for him to get up again. Her hands shaking violently, she'd just managed to open the door when she realized that someone was barring the exit.

"TJ," she said, the name coming out more gasp than she'd intended.

He took in her flushed appearance and the man writhing prostrate on the floor, before returning his gaze to her.

"Are you all right? What the hell's going on?"

She took a breath, managing to still her shaking with some effort. He started to put an arm around her shoulders and lead her into the garden, but stopped when she flinched.

"I'm fine," she said shortly. Farnham was starting to get up, breathing heavily. She followed TJ out into the garden – without touching him – and firmly closed and locked the door behind her, shutting Farnham inside.

"I wanted to see the sun porch before Lethem and I taught workshops tomorrow," she explained, her words coming far too quickly. "Because I dislike going into a situation without knowing the physical details, and last week I didn't do that and it seemed as though I was at a disadvantage for the remainder of the workshops, as a result."

He smiled at her, the concern replaced momentarily with what seemed genuine understanding.

"Yeah – it's the foster thing, actually," he said, to her surprise. "At least, that's what it is for me. You can only spend so many years being dumped in a stranger's living room before you start to get paranoid about where you're gonna land next. I knew Caleb would already have the seating done, but I just wanted to double check."

His revelation obviously required some type of acknowledgement, but there was still the matter of an irate Jason Farnham on the other side of the door, no doubt nursing an even more profound vendetta against her at that very moment. She glanced at her watch, and groaned softly.

"Damn it."

"Are you all right? Did he try to hurt you?" he asked, still clearly quite concerned.

"I'm late," she said, without offering any further explanation. "I really have to go." She paused. "But… the sun porch – it's nice?"

He nodded – perhaps still confused, but he offered a kind smile nonetheless. "Yeah, it is. Two exits. Lots of windows. Good ventilation."

That understanding she'd experienced earlier at breakfast passed between them again, and she returned his smile.

"Good. Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow?"

And she hurried for home, leaving TJ looking completely baffled in her wake.

* * *

There was a pickup truck parked behind the Prius by the time she got back to the house, though there was no one in sight in the immediate vicinity. Her heart rate was still slightly erratic, a combination of her fast pace on the way home and, she freely admitted, her encounter with Farnham. She pulled her cell phone from her jeans and hit speed dial – a moment later, she heard Booth's distinctive ring tone just down the street.

He was still twenty yards from the house, while she was walking up the front path. She caught his eye as he answered, and for a moment she thought she saw his pace falter, something – relief? – cross his face, before he answered the phone.

"So, which is it, Bones – you gonna have your way with me, or take me to a crappy movie with subtitles?"

She forced a casual tone as she strolled up the walk, looking over her shoulder to watch his approach. "I haven't decided yet. Your friends are here."

"Yeah, Bones, I can see that."

He was closer now – only a few paces behind, and she realized that he wasn't above shooting past her to be the first one inside. Though she suddenly didn't care nearly so much about winning as she had, she hastened her stride as a matter of obligation, reaching the door just as he hit the walkway. It struck her as odd that Mickey and Artie were nowhere in sight – she paused, looking over her shoulder at him once more. She hung up the phone, for some reason reluctant to go inside.

"Would they just let themselves in?" she asked.

He returned his cell phone to his pocket, looking around the yard. "Yeah, actually – they probably would. You didn't leave any girly things hangin' off the lampshade, did you?"

She shook her head. She was unlocking the door when she stopped, turning to him hesitantly.

"I won, right?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, Bones – you won." He paused, turning to look at her fully. Took in what she supposed were likely lingering indicators of stress – dilated pupils, the remnants of a tremor in her hands, uneven breathing.

"Are you okay?" he asked immediately.

"Yes, Booth – I'm fine." She took a breath, recognizing that she'd need to tell him what happened. "But I ran into Farnham at the estate." She rolled her eyes, interrupting before he could ask any questions. "The man is despicable, but it doesn't really go any farther than that. At any rate, he'll need an ice pack for more than his jaw tonight."

He laughed – very slightly, and with very little humor. "So maybe I'd be better off askin' if _he's _okay?"

"That might be more appropriate, yes," she agreed.

He put his arm around her shoulders, and she didn't hesitate to lean into him – savoring how close he was, how solid he felt beside her. The exchange was over before it had really begun, however, because a moment later the front door swung open and Mickey stood in her house with a beer in hand and Artie beside him.

"You guys planning on standing out there all day, or are we gonna eat?" Artie demanded.

Once they'd exchanged pleasantries, they went into the kitchen. Brennan got out plates and serving spoons, while Booth set the food on the table. Before they were even seated, the conversation had returned to the case.

"So, the first order of business is to call the cops on Farnham," he said. He held her eye as he continued, clearly anticipating a fight. "This is twice now that he's started something - I want a restraining order on that guy, until we can figure out what the hell's wrong with him."

Instead of arguing, however, Brennan nodded. "I'll call them tomorrow and get it taken care of," she said.

Booth raised his eyebrows. "All right... Uh, good." He paused, looking somewhat thrown that he'd won so easily. "And we also got a chance to talk to a few of the folks from the conference today," he added once he'd recovered.

"Which ones?" Mickey asked immediately. "Anybody good?"

"Mostly students – the only other real writers were David Lethem and Jamie… what's her name?" Booth asked, looking at Brennan.

"Crankshaw," Artie answered, before Brennan had the opportunity. The man spooned out a sizable portion of rice and yellow curry, helping himself before anyone else got near the food. "Goddess," he added, exchanging a glance with Mickey.

Brennan thought she caught a particular look from Booth, before it vanished.

"She's very attractive," she said quickly, finding it amusing that Booth would feel the need to hide his appreciation of that fact.

"I read this essay she wrote about sex and old cars last year," Artie said, shaking his head. "Jesus. I didn't know whether to hit the road or beat the – ­"

"We get the picture, Art – thanks," Booth interrupted quickly. "But, yeah… Hot blonde with legs up to her neck who writes like Hemingway and rebuilt a 507 Roadster in her spare time? Not bad, I guess."

"She did not," Mickey said, his mouth slightly agape.

Booth didn't quite meet Brennan's eye as he continued. "She did – she was tellin' me about it this morning. 4-speed manual tranni, rebuilt v-8…" He shrugged, looking at Brennan now. "I mean, you know… I guess some guys might be into that kinda thing."

She laughed out loud at his transparency, though she couldn't deny the slightest twinge of insecurity.

"But not you, right, Seel?" Artie said with a grin.

Booth shook his head quickly, ducking his head again. "Me? Hell, no. But I think I should introduce you two – I'm pretty sure she's single, right Bones?"

Brennan nodded, enjoying the rapport between the men. She realized suddenly how rarely she actually saw Booth interacting with friends in D.C. – he seemed to have Parker and, to a lesser extent, the staff at the Jeffersonian… But people with whom he interacted socially, other than herself, were really quite rare.

"She is," she agreed. "Though I think she may have begun seeing my assistant – "

Booth shook his head. His plate was now piled high with noodles and spicy beef Pad Ga-praw, but he paused before taking a bite to address her assertion.

"Caleb? Nah, it'll never last. I'm pretty sure they sealed it a couple nights ago, but the bloom's already off that rose."

She looked at him in surprise. "Did she tell you that?"

Another shake of his head. He selected a large piece of beef and popped it in his mouth, that slow, blissful look settling over his face as he nodded his appreciation. "This is good Thai, Bones." He took a sip of water, coughing as his eyes watered and the others laughed at him. "Spicy, but good."

Brennan spooned food from several of the containers onto her plate, still waiting for a response to her initial question. When one didn't seem to be forthcoming, she prompted him. "So… How do you know it won't work between Caleb and Jamie?"

He rolled his eyes. "Because, Bones, she was hitting on me about the same time Lethem was hittin' on you. And Caleb's what, five, six years younger than her?" He shook his head. "Nah – Artie, she's as good as yours. Forget Olga or Helga or whoever that masseuse is… Jamie's the woman for you."

Before anyone could pursue the matter any further, Booth clapped his hands together and nodded toward the living room – which could mean anything, really, but Brennan took it to mean he was indicating the files contained therein.

"So… Let's get back on topic, huh? Breakfast, this morning. There are a couple guys I want you to check up on besides that creep Farnham, Art – TJ Wright and Doug Murray. And Ryan Jacobs – dig up whatever you can on him, too."

"Didn't they check out Murray when that doctor disappeared?" Artie asked immediately. "I remember seeing his name come up in the files a few times."

Booth nodded. "Yeah, but he fits the profile, he's got the build for it… And there's something about Wright that makes me nervous."

Mickey and Artie looked at each other significantly. "Well – you get nervous, you know we're not gonna fight you on it."

Booth gave them both a look she recognized – it most frequently appeared when she brought up a subject he wished to avoid.

"Why won't you fight when he gets nervous?" she asked. She indicated the Mee Krob to see if Booth wanted some, but he shook his head.

"Doesn't matter, Bones," he said quickly. "They just trust that I know what I'm doing – unlike _some _people," obviously meaning her. "So… TJ, Doug. I wanna keep an eye on both of 'em."

Brennan glanced at the clock, noting that it was almost seven-thirty. "What time did you tell Washington to be here?" she asked suddenly.

Booth paused before answering, chewing thoughtfully. "Huh, I almost forgot he was coming," he said, though Brennan could tell quite clearly that this was not true. "I told him sometime between seven-thirty and eight – I'm sure he'll be along anytime now."

He looked squarely at Mickey before he continued, no trace of humor in his face or his tone, now. "You guys met Alex Washington yet?"

Mickey barely hesitated. He was the only one using a fork rather than chopsticks, but he set down the utensil at the question, and met Booth's gaze evenly.

"You saw us last night," he guessed.

Booth nodded. "Yeah, Mick – I saw you last night. You mind telling me what the hell was goin' on there?" His tone was low, his eyes darker – he'd set his chopsticks down, and now sat with both hands on the edge of the table, as though poised to stand.

"You're making too much of it," Artie said quickly.

Booth stared at him in disbelief. "You were in on it, too?"

"In on what, Seel?" Mickey asked. "You're making it sound like a conspiracy or something. He wants the same thing you do – to keep Dr. Brennan safe."

"So, how long have you two been dancing with me and fucking him, exactly?" Booth asked, that tic at work in his jaw once more.

"It's not like that," Artie said, starting to show signs of anger himself. "We've worked on this case before, all right? He knows us. Once he found out you'd be involved, he came to us – he'd done some checking, knew we went way back. And since we're the best in the business…"

"He figured I'd be in touch, to get you guys to shadow Bones," Booth guessed.

Mickey nodded seriously. "You don't know the case like he does, Seel – no offense, but trust me here, nobody wants these guys off the streets more than he does."

"So you just decided sure, what the hell? You'd work with him, not even give me a heads up?"

"We didn't think it would matter," Mickey continued, his own voice rising – no longer pleading, but tinged with anger instead. "I mean what the fuck, Seeley? We're all on the same team here, right? Whether we're reporting to you or Alex or both of you, at the end of the day we just want these guys off the street and your – Dr. Brennan, safe. Isn't that what this is about? Or are you just in a pissing contest with Washington, now?"

Booth managed to hold his temper, which Brennan found nothing short of remarkable. The tension in the room was palpable, a physical force between the three men. She'd completely forgotten about eating by this time, too interested in the unfolding drama. Now, however, Booth took a breath and a long drink from his beer bottle, before another mouthful of food. Only after he'd finished chewing, swallowed, and taken another drink did he continue. She recognized the look on his face, however, and realized the storm had hardly passed.

"So, Mickey – if we're all on the same side with the same agenda, you mind telling me what the deal was when you fell out of a fuckin' tree while you were watching Bones last week? 'Cause I seem to remember a time when you could make it from one end of a goddamn country to the other without so much as a twig snapping."

Mickey looked shaken for the first time that night – guilty, even. He glanced at Brennan, then back at Booth.

"Maybe we should talk about this privately," he said uneasily.

"I don't think I should have to leave when it's my safety in question," Brennan said without hesitation.

Booth nodded. "From here on out, she's in this – whatever decisions we make, Bones is a part of. So – Mickey? You mind telling me what the hell happened on Wednesday?"

He looked more guilty than ever – so much so that Brennan was beginning to feel badly for him. Finally, Artie interrupted.

"It was Washington's idea – he wanted to know how you'd react if you heard someone following you, Dr. Brennan."

Booth didn't look surprised, but Brennan was flabbergasted. There was definitely no trace of pity left for either of the men facing off against Booth, now. "You did that purposely? You _tried _to scare me – to make me think someone was out there?"

Mickey nodded miserably. "It was for your own good – Alex wanted to know what to expect, if the Lady Killer actually made a move. How much time we'd have, what you'd do."

Booth rubbed his head, setting down his chopsticks once more. He looked from Mickey to Artie, then back again.

"Once Washington gets here, everybody's cards are on the table. I'm sick of this shit – I need to know I've got a team I can count on out here."

"You do, Seel," Artie said seriously. "You've just gotta learn to have a little faith that somebody else can do their job as well as you can."

Booth's cell phone rang shortly after this exchange – she noted the concern on his face, and knew before he'd even said anything that it was Parker.

"I've gotta take this – I'll be right back," Booth said, before he excused himself and went into the living room.

An uncomfortable silence followed, before Artie finally cleared his throat.

"So, how long have you and Seeley been…?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Partners? Four years now. How long were you in the Rangers together?" she asked, pleased that she'd managed to deflect what would have otherwise been an uncomfortable discussion about her relationship with Booth.

Art looked at Mickey, as though trying to confirm dates and times. "I don't know – Paraguay was, what, a year into it for me? Seeley went on for another couple of years after that, I think. And Mickey you lasted what, another three months?"

Mickey looked down, seeming disturbed by either the question or the topic – Brennan was uncertain which.

"Yeah, just over three months. We'd been special ops about a year together, before that."

"And Paraguay…" She hesitated, uncertain as to how to broach the subject. "That's when you were injured?" she asked, looking at Artie.

He nodded, appearing surprised. "What – Seel never told you about South America?" He shook his head, feigning dismay. "He never was much of a soldier, that kid – doesn't even know how to tell a good war story."

Mickey still looked uncomfortable. "Maybe we should wait for Booth to get back," he suggested, but Artie shook his head dismissively.

"He'll never tell that story and you know it," he said simply. He seemed to assess Brennan in that moment, looking her in the eye as he continued. "And if you're partners with a man like Seeley Booth, this is probably the kind of story you should know."

She retrieved three beers from the refrigerator, handing them out to the two men before opening a second bottle for herself. Recently, she'd been opting for wine – and rarely more than a glass, but for some reason, this seemed like a two-beer night. Booth was still talking quietly in the next room – the soft, playful tone he reserved for Parker, and she wondered briefly if there was a problem. Once she'd ensured that everyone had everything they needed, she sat down and waited for the men to continue.

"It was back in the summer of '96," Artie began, pushing his plate aside. "And we had this bitch of an op in Paraguay."

"You ever been there, Dr. Brennan?" Mickey interrupted.

She nodded, remembering mosquitoes. Cockroaches. Heat. Bones. Snakes. She hadn't liked Paraguay.

"Once," she said.

Artie smiled, apparently sensing her distaste. "Yeah – it's got its charms, but I'm pretty sure we didn't see any of 'em. This was during the whole drug war thing – a lot of smugglers from Bolivia and Colombia there, Arab extremists, the U.S. was getting ready to increase the DEA's presence, so there was a lot of resistance to that… It wasn't a great time to be there. And there was this drug czar from Colombia, who was hiding out in Asuncion."

"And you were there to kill him," she guessed.

The two men exchanged glances again. "Eliminate, but… yeah," Artie said. "But the whole thing was a pain in the ass – it took a week longer than it was supposed to, it was about a hundred and ten in the shade, and this guy had the whole rainforest wired to go off if anyone set foot within a hundred yards of him." He took a drink, his eyes taking on a distant cast.

"By the time Seeley finally got a clear shot, we were all on the verge, you know? And Seeley'd been around the block a time or two by then, was starting to get kind of…" he paused, and she had the sense he was choosing his words carefully. "Tired, I think."

She tried to imagine this – Booth in camouflage, skulking through the rainforest, searching a strange and hostile world for an anonymous target. It was difficult in some ways to picture, but not as difficult as she might have thought.

"So, you kill – eliminated the target," she adjusted her phrasing. "Then what happened?"

Mickey cleared his throat, looking unnaturally flushed as he took over. "By that time, we just wanted to let off some steam, you know? It'd been a stressful week, you've got a bunch of young guys, so we went to this, um… sort of bar, I guess you could say."

She wasn't certain why he was stumbling, until she made the connection. "You mean a brothel?" she asked. "Prostitution is legal in Paraguay – there's no reason to be ashamed. And it's hardly shocking. The production of dopamine and serotonin stimulated during arousal and orgasm have been proven to combat depression, alleviate tension, and even mirror the effects of amphetamines in some men – "

Artie laughed aloud at this, though Mickey still looked uncomfortable. "Well, there you have it. So, yeah, we went to a whorehouse in Asuncion. And I'm not just saying this because Seeley's your… uh, partner, but we had to _drag _the guy there. Always did. He'd sit in the bar and get drunk, get hit on by every girl in the place, and go home alone every single goddamn time. Used to drive us nuts."

If the information was meant to bring her some comfort, it did not – somehow, she would have felt better knowing Booth had sought some type of refuge during what she knew had been dark times for him.

"So, it's about ten at night, and we'd barely gotten through the door before Seeley gets this spooked look on his face."

Mickey nodded. "Yeah – he just kept saying it didn't feel right. We kind of laughed it off, though – told him it was just that old Catholic guilt cropping up."

She was picturing all of this as the narrative unfolded – a younger Booth, with fewer lines, fewer scars, but undoubtedly darker and more angst ridden than the man she knew. Artie, ambulatory and attractive, anxious for a release. Mickey, the bull, silently searching the overheated brothel. And Booth, suddenly standing in their way.

"But of course we ignored him and went in anyway, and it wasn't long before we, uh, met some girls," Mickey said, avoiding her eye. She understood that 'met some girls' was a euphemism, but she didn't say anything.

"We were upstairs when I heard someone scream in the next room, which…" Artie shrugged apologetically. "It's not exactly unusual, that kind of establishment. But then there's this huge commotion outside, and finally I decide I better go check things out. I come out and look over the banister, onto the first floor, right?" He took a breath, scratching the back of his neck.

"And there's this girl, buck naked, and Seeley's kneeling beside her. And even from where I'm standing, I can see the blood. Her throat's cut, and he's trying to stop the bleeding – he's got his hands on her throat, but there's no way in hell it's working."

Mickey cleared his throat. "I was in the next room, so I came out and there's Artie, and everyone's screaming, and the next thing we know there are these three, big-ass banditos – two with AK47s, and one with a machete, and they're rounding up all the girls in the place."

He stopped talking abruptly. Brennan stared at them both, waiting for them to continue, until she realized that Booth was standing behind her. He sat down next to her, and took a drink of her beer.

"They'd already raped and killed two other girls," Booth said quietly, choosing not to look at any of them as he picked up the story. "The third one managed to get away, and as she was coming down the stairs the guy with the machete hit her in the throat. Artie started coming down to help me, and I saw the gunmen turning toward him." He looked intently at the table, drawing a diagram with his index finger to indicate the positioning.

"So, one of the guys gets a bead on Artie. The one with a machete has another girl. Everybody's screaming. And this whole time, the girl's still bleeding – if I take my hand off her throat, I know she's dead."

She didn't interrupt to tell him that the girl would have died anyway – that removing his hand wasn't what killed her. Somehow, she had the sense that her merely saying the words wouldn't make it true, for him. She wished suddenly that she hadn't asked – that no one had ever mentioned Paraguay. The room was silent, until Booth finally shrugged.

"But, you know – Artie's not getting up from an AK47, so… I let go. Hit the first gunman," he nodded toward Mickey. "Mickey got the second one. But not before the guy with the knife took the stairs, and hit Artie across the back."

"Transecting the spine," Brennan guessed.

Artie nodded. "And that's how we learned to trust Booth when he said he didn't like something," he summarized, with a grim smile. "But if he hadn't been there, I would've been dead. And maybe everybody else in the place, too."

Another silence fell, this one darker. She looked at Booth, who suddenly seemed very far away.

"How's Parker?" she asked suddenly, not certain what else to say.

He smiled unexpectedly at this – at her, though she didn't know why, and to her surprise he stood and kissed the top of her head gently, with the two men watching. He even laughed, a little bit, as he got another beer from the fridge.

"Parker's good, Bones," he told her. "Just misses his old man. And you. He'll be glad when you're home, too."

He pushed his chair back toward the table and nodded toward the living room, resting his hand at the back of her neck all the while.

"Now – unless you knuckleheads wanna tell Bones here some other shitty stories about my past, how's about we get to work? We've got two hours tops before I boot both your sorry asses out the door, so let's get to it."

* * *

Washington called at ten past eight that evening to tell them he couldn't make it. Booth got more quiet after the phone call, and by nine o'clock Artie and Mickey were carrying the conversation and Brennan was feeling the effects of the past forty-eight hours in a way she simply hadn't predicted. She was exhausted, her nerves frayed, and though there was a very definite part of her that looked forward to having some time to herself once Booth left in the morning, it seemed that a more significant part was dreading having him go.

Their guests left by ten, promising to keep Booth updated as to any new developments. Mickey was to continue tailing Brennan, but the understanding was that he would clear any of his actions with both Booth and Brennan herself before following Washington's orders. She leaned down and kissed Artie on the cheek before he left, while Mickey shook her hand solemnly – though he was clearly quite pleased that she'd finally had an opportunity to sign his book. And then, she and Booth did the dishes in silence and went to bed shortly thereafter, knowing that they'd need to be up by five the next morning to get to the airport for Booth's flight.

By the time they lay down together that night, Brennan felt as though her partner had somehow already made the trip back to D.C., and she had no idea how to reach him there. The knowledge filled her with uncertainty, a sense of dread that she'd somehow ruined everything by pushing him today – insisting that she go off alone, forcing him to relive the incident in Paraguay. She was certain, suddenly, that he'd realized his error in declaring his feelings so quickly, or perhaps he'd only said what he said because she'd said what she said, and now she was completely misreading the entire situation.

She fell asleep in his arms the way she had for the past two nights, but even that couldn't dispel the distance she was feeling. She didn't understand how someone could maintain such close physical proximity, and yet still feel so far away. Thoughts of their relationship eventually gave way to thoughts about the case, so that by the time she finally felt herself begin to drift, she was recalling the photo of Rachel and Abby Martin. And Doug Murray. And Artie, Mickey, and Washington…

She was frankly amazed she slept at all.

She woke very late, to the feel of Booth's lips on her forehead, his fingers moving lightly over her collarbone and neck before he traced her lips and cheekbones, her ears and nose, chin and throat, as though memorizing her features. She opened her eyes, and once she'd adjusted to the darkness all around, she was shaken by the look on his face – the depth of emotion, the complete lack of reserve where before she'd seen nothing but distance. As soon as he saw that she was awake, he kissed her – pulling her closer, already fully erect, pressing the heel of his hand against her mound until she bucked against him.

Before she could even begin to reciprocate, he pulled away and looked at her. He seemed to be struggling with whether or not to say something, before he finally let out a deep, ragged breath.

"You know how I always give you all those lines about what to do and what not to do when you're up against somebody – not to shoot 'til you know your target, not to put anyone in danger…?"

She refrained from rolling her eyes, not quite able to believe she was going to be subjected to a gun safety lesson now.

"Yes, Booth – I remember. I know."

He shook his head, and she was shaken once more by his intensity. "Just forget all that stuff, okay? Forget everything I ever said about hesitating. If someone's after you – if they come for you, just fight, okay? Shoot them both, I don't care where or how or who else is around. Just promise me you'll fight, okay, Bones?"

His eyes were glassy, and she realized for the first time that he was perspiring, his pulse and breathing both rapid. How long had he been lying here, watching her sleep, thinking whatever these thoughts were, before he'd finally woken her?

She kissed him, holding his face in her hands, trying to infuse her kiss with the words that always seemed to elude her.

"I'll be all right, Seeley," she said softly.

He shifted until they were lying side by side, pulling her leg up to rest on his hip, his phallus pressed to her core.

"If something like what happened to Rachel Martin happened to you, it'd kill me," he said quietly. His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat – looked away from her, for just a moment. He brushed the hair from her forehead, his eyes returning to hers once he'd regained his composure. "Honest to God, Bones, I think I'd go nuts."

She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand, thinking of the paradox that he represented – the light and the dark, the tough exterior and then these soft, lost moments when she saw who he truly was.

"You'll be back in a few days – I'll be safe 'til then."

He nodded, appearing slightly self conscious about his emotional display now. Before he could retreat once more, she kissed him impulsively, holding his gaze.

"I really do love you, I think," she said. "Very much."

He rolled them so that he was on top of her, shifting his weight to his elbows as he sheathed himself fully. And for one moment – though she knew it was impossible – it did seem as though time had stopped. That they were, almost, one. They lay that way for only a second or so, but she held his eyes, didn't even waver when her gasp broke the stillness as he began to move. They were not one – she knew that, logically. She knew quite well where she ended and he began. Despite the claims of romantics the world over for thousands of years, she was quite aware that she was Temperance Brennan, and he was Seeley Booth.

But it didn't matter, somehow. He ran his tongue over the pulse at her throat, nipped at her earlobe, set a desperate rhythm that seemed to echo whatever dark thoughts were in his head. She pressed herself up to meet him, to bring him deeper, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other at his back, feeling the muscles move beneath his skin, the power and life that ran through him.

The tension built quickly, the night dark and still and silent, the exterior world both a thousand miles away and all-enveloping, simultaneously. She wrapped her legs around his waist, cried out nonsense and pleas and breathless promises, until his lips were on hers and everything but sensation fell away. Her walls clenched and her back bowed, muscles contracting, chemicals surging.

He followed a moment later, silently, never losing control the way she had, and she watched the way his face changed – that moment of pleasure, release, near-relief that was invariably so different for him. The chemicals, the thoughts, the way his synapses fired in contrast with hers… Everything different. She didn't understand him, never would, but she felt suddenly that she would never tire of trying.

For that second afterward before he'd had an opportunity to regain his senses, he collapsed on top of her and she absorbed his weight – reveled in it, really, because in that moment there was no mistaking the fact that he was there and they were unquestionably together; how could they not be? With one-hundred and eighty pounds or more of Seeley Booth crushing her lungs, his hipbone jutting painfully into hers, it was impossible to miss his presence.

It was almost a disappointment when he shifted his weight back to his elbows, his breathing slowed as he raised himself enough to look at her. He smoothed her hair back, kissed her lips.

"Maybe I should stay," he said quietly.

She laughed, until she realized he was serious.

"You have to go, Booth," she said – though even as she said it, she was wondering if perhaps it wasn't true. "You can't just abandon work – what about the witness in D.C.?"

The look in his eyes told her quite clearly that she was right. He said nothing, and they remained that way for some time – him studying her so intently that she began to feel self conscious. He traced her cheekbones, kissed her eyelids, ran his finger over her lips and along the ridges of her ears, until she felt herself blushing.

"You're staring at me," she finally told him.

He smiled – just slightly, however, still quite serious. "You're gorgeous, Bones. I mean…" He shook his head, like she was some type of puzzle he couldn't quite work out. "I know you don't know it, but someday if you ever wake up and realize just how goddamn beautiful you are, that's the end of the road for us. Because a woman like you – if you knew what you really were, you wouldn't be caught dead with a guy like me."

She didn't answer for a moment, unable to hide her dismay at his words. Finally, she sat up, practically pushing him off her.

"Hey, Bones, I didn't mean to upset you," he said, his eyes widening slightly at her reaction. She pushed him back in the bed, switching positions so that she was lying atop him, now. She straddled his stomach, letting him take her full weight as she studied him as intently as he'd done her a moment before.

"I don't understand why you think that way," she said, finally. "Why wouldn't I want to be with you? Why wouldn't _anyone _want to be with you?" She sighed, kissing his lips and his chin and his dimples, her forehead furrowed in concern.

"You're a good man, Seeley," she told him seriously, unable to understand why it seemed such a difficult concept for him to understand. "Better than anyone I've ever known. And that's not dopamine or serotonin or oxycytocin, because I saw that before we ever began sleeping together. You're intelligent, and funny. You care about people. You're kind to animals. You smell good," she thought about this. "Most of the time." She noted that he was definitely enjoying her affirmations, a grin slowly taking shape on his lips. "You're quite skilled in bed," she added.

He leaned up and kissed her. "Wow, Bones. Maybe I should dump you and just date me."

"Or simply stop resorting to ridiculous hyperbole about how I'm so beautiful you don't deserve me."

He shrugged. "Hey, I was just trying to pay you a compliment. Next time, I'll think twice."

He sighed, wrapping his arms around her tightly, rolling her back so that they were side by side once more.

"We should try to get a little more sleep – we'll have to be up in a couple hours."

She nodded. Curled into the warmth of his chest, closed her eyes. Listened to his heartbeat gradually return to a normal rhythm.

And thought about unreliable narrators.

Booth fell asleep a few minutes later, but Brennan remained awake. Fully awake, not even slightly drowsy, her thoughts turning from Booth and what they'd just shared to, inevitably enough, the case. She found herself inexplicably thinking once more of Lethem's board, and specifically the last two questions: _Who is truly credible, _and _What is the one fact you won't question?_

What was the one fact she hadn't questioned, in all of this? There were actually dozens, but there was one fact that hadn't been corroborated by anyone beyond Washington. One fact that had brought her out here, beyond all others. One girl, and a single blurred photo of a bloated corpse that Washington himself had identified.

Abby Martin.

She disentangled herself from Booth's arms, careful not to wake him, put on his t-shirt, and hurried down the stairs. Her heart pounding, she turned on the light and grabbed the Lady Killer files from the coffee table. She pulled the photo of Rachel and her daughter, and then the post mortem photo of the teenager previously identified as Abby Martin.

After studying the photos for a moment or two, she got up and retrieved a magnifying glass from her bag. Looked closer, but still couldn't tell anything definitively. She glanced at the clock.

It was four a.m.

She hesitated only a moment before she called Angela.

"Oh my god, why don't you sleep anymore?" Angela groaned into the phone, after the third ring.

"Do you have software that can compare two photographs – one of a child that's approximately nine years of age, with a teenager approximately sixteen or seventeen, to determine if it's the same person?" Brennan asked without preamble.

Angela sounded slightly more awake when she responded. "And this has to do with your little writing conference thingy how?"

"Ange," she said seriously. "Just… Can you do it?"

The woman sighed. "Who do you think you're talking to, Bren? Of course I do."

"So if I send these photos to the Jeffersonian this morning, can you have it for me as soon as possible?"

"Yeah, of course," Angela said, clearly sensing the urgency in her tone. "Is everything okay, sweetie?"

"It's fine – I just need you to do this for me, as soon as you can. It's very important."

"Sure, Bren, no problem. I'll get dressed now and head over there, just e-mail me the j-pegs."

Brennan sighed, wishing she could somehow determine whether her theory was correct then and there. But a couple of hours wouldn't kill her.

"So, isn't it like four o'clock in the morning there?" Angela asked. "What did you do with Booth?"

She was just settling on the sofa to respond, when she thought she heard something outside the house. She held the phone away from her ear, listening intently.

Down the street, a dog barked. A car door slammed, somewhere nearby. Silence, for several seconds, before she heard it again – footsteps, walking rapidly up the path to the front door.

"Ange, I have to go," she whispered. "But I'll send the pictures now – get to them as soon as you can."

She closed the phone, trying to decide between going for Booth or her gun. The door was locked – she remembered Booth checking it before they went to bed. The security system was armed – or had he asked her to do that, tonight? He would have double-checked both, though, she knew.

She turned off the lamp, the second adrenaline push of the day setting her off balance yet again. There was more movement in the front yard – the sound of something heavy dropped on the doorstep, and then footsteps retreating fast, down the walkway. She crept to the window and looked outside, her heart thudding in her chest, her throat, her ears.

Nothing. No one. She maneuvered herself in the window so that she could just barely see the doorstep from where she was standing, and knew then that it hadn't been her imagination – a box, approximately twenty centimeters square from what she could see of it, was waiting for her. A short internal debate followed, before she turned around and went upstairs for Booth.

"What do you mean, there's a package on the doorstep?" he asked a moment later, no trace of sleep in his voice as he registered her concern.

He sat up and pulled on his sweatpants, then retrieved his gun from the nightstand. He nodded to the phone she still held in her hand.

"Call Artie, find out if Mickey was gonna patrol tonight or wait 'til I left."

He turned on the hall light, blinking slightly as his eyes adjusted, and shook his head as he went down the stairs, Brennan close on his heels.

"See, Bones," he whispered loudly. "This is what happens when you won't just sleep like a normal person."

"I _was_ sleeping," she whispered back, though she realized that whispering wasn't actually necessary at this point. "Until you woke me."

"If this is one of your loser writer friends pulling some loser writer prank, I'm shooting them. All of them," he grumbled, though she noted that his jaw was rigid, his shoulders tense. He wasn't anticipating a prank.

"Did you call Artie yet?" he asked knowingly.

She shook her head. "Do you want me to get my gun?"

"No, Bones, I want you to call Artie," he responded promptly. She began to dial, and Booth nodded toward the stairs. "And go stand over there. Away from the door."

"I think I should stay with you," she said.

"And I think you should wait by the goddamn stairs," he said, giving her a look that did not invite debate.

She did as he said, noting that Artie answered on the second ring and didn't sound as though he'd been sleeping at all.

"What's the problem?" he asked immediately, once he'd apparently read her name on his ID.

"Someone just dropped off a package on my doorstep," she said.

Booth checked the window before he opened the front door. Brennan realized she was holding her breath, waiting for whatever was about to come next.

"What kind of package?" Artie asked, and she realized suddenly that he'd been asking the same question for some time now.

"We don't know yet – Booth's getting it now."

"Hang on – let me send Mickey over, or call Washington."

She put her hand over the receiver. "He says to wait for Mickey or Washington."

Booth had already bent and retrieved the package, however. When he turned around, he looked grim.

"Tell him to send Mickey over. Don't call Washington – I'll do that."

She repeated the instructions to Artie, hung up, and walked to Booth's side. He set the box down carefully on the coffee table, and she noted that the cardboard was already soaked through with something that bled through to the wood below. A printed note was affixed to the top with a piece of scotch tape, and Brennan knew before she'd finished reading the first line, what the rest of the note would say.

_Violence and art,  
__Your blood, my heart  
__Together forever  
__Bred in the Bone_

Booth took the phone from her hand, and she barely registered who he was calling as she watched him gingerly open the box.

She peered into the box, and took a shaky breath that echoed the one Booth took at almost exactly the same time.

Nestled in blood-soaked newspaper, the shine of muscle and viscera indicating a recent kill, a human heart lay with a large red ribbon tied around it.

"Yeah," she heard Booth say to someone on the other line. "This is Special Agent Seeley Booth – I need to talk to Deputy Director Werner." She looked from the heart to Booth, his jaw clenched and his face suddenly ashen. "Yeah, I'll just leave a message, and I'll talk to him later. But if you could let him know I won't be in for the next few days…"

She took a deep breath, staring at the 'gift' on her coffee table. Suddenly, an overprotective partner seemed like the least of her concerns.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

_All right, kids - in honor of Amilyn's b'day... A new chapter! In which we learn about the heart on the coffee table, and get a little insight into who the hell this Washington guy is, and some other assorted things happen that will hopefully keep you coming back for more while we wrap this puppy up over the next couple of weeks! Thanks as always for your incredibly generous feedback, you guys are all the best readers ever. Happy B'Day, Ami - hope you enjoy! _

**MONDAY/TUESDAY**

The thing Booth hated about the heat was how much worse everything smelled. Bones would no doubt have a nice, neat, scientific reason for that, but all he knew was that whenever he was in a place where the temps hit higher than ninety, it smelled like the world was dying around him. It had been like that in Paraguay, so that any respectable scent dog could've sniffed out his entire squad in a heartbeat; sweat pouring off him, the plants and the trees and the wet ground at his feet all taking on this earthy, rich, rotten smell that he knew he'd never forget.

That night – after Mickey and Art left; after Booth went into the bathroom with his hands shaking and looked himself in the mirror long and hard, reminding himself to man up and get over all the shit that was now welling up way too close to the surface; after he and Temperance made love, and the shit rose closer and he got quieter and he finally, thank God, fell asleep with her in his arms before it spilled over… After all that, he went back to Paraguay.

The whorehouse wasn't in the middle of town in his dream – instead, he was walking through the jungle alongside Mickey and Art and the other guys, when all of a sudden there it was: stucco and bright colors, girls way too young to look so old waiting for them, and that feeling that'd hit him that day. _Don't go in. _Green chameleons and geckos the color of mud skittered up the walls. A long, black snake bellied its way across his path, monkeys and parrots screaming in the trees overhead, Mickey and Art goading him from behind.

But instead of being there for a solid hour, drinking himself to oblivion in the bar like he had that night, this time it all hit as soon as the door closed behind him. Mickey and Art vanished, and he was watching the girl run down the stairs – naked, screaming, her dark hair around her shoulders, the man with the knife on her heels. Nobody in the place moved – Booth tried, but he was rooted to the spot, watching when the blade hit her slim, dark throat and laid it open.

And suddenly, she was at his feet with his hands on her neck, the blood pumping warm and thick through his fingers, and when he looked at her, it wasn't a stranger at all. It was Bones, naked and choking, the light fading in her blue eyes.

He jerked awake just before she slipped away, and lay there for a second in the dark with his breath coming hard and his heart about to hammer straight through his chest.

Bones was still asleep in his arms. He watched her chest rise and fall, listened to the steady beat of her heart. The alarm clock by the bed read three o'clock, and he'd never hated the passage of time the way he had in the past two days.

And now, he had three more hours before he was on a plane headed for D.C. – no closer to finding the killer than he'd been when he got here. He thought of the pictures they'd been staring at all day – of the way those women's lives had ended, the things they went through and the pain and terror they must've felt.

Did they think they might get away? Bones would fight – he'd seen what she did to Kenton, when Booth had done everything but put the gun in the agent's hand that day four years ago. She would fight, but these bastards – whoever they were – would fight harder. Today, talking about the notes the killer left sealed it for him: three notes, with Temperance as the central theme. No doubt in his mind, she was a target. Hell, she was _the _target. Maybe that was why he didn't really give a rat's ass whether people out here knew they were together or not, whether her cover was blown. Because Booth knew it didn't matter.

They'd still come after her – he knew it, felt it. No question.

They were coming for her.

He'd felt as much in just that hour they were apart, picking up the Thai food while she insisted she go off on her own. Standing in the restaurant while they took about sixteen years longer than any respectable place in D.C. would have for the same order, he'd watched the clock. Held onto his phone, in case she called. One hour, and he'd just about fallen to his fuckin' knees when he got back and there she was, waiting for him.

"_I won, right?"_

Jesus. Yeah, Bones.

She did this thing while she was sleeping, had this habit of holding her hand over his heart. Almost like she was making sure it was still beating, just making sure he was still there. She mumbled in her sleep, wriggled in her sleep, moaned and tossed and, once the other night, laughed out loud. It was no wonder she was so goddamn tired – Bones's mind went faster than most people he knew, even when she was passed out. Not that he'd had much chance to watch her – apparently, she'd given up on sleep since the case started.

And on eating. She complained about him losing weight and looking a little ragged, but she was one to talk. It was easy to see how much the case was getting to her – hell, if it hadn't been obvious before, the way the picture in the hospital sent her over the edge was like a neon sign. She was obsessed.

Booth knew from experience – that was when things got dangerous. She wasn't thinking straight, and he was having a hard time getting a good picture of the whole case himself. He thought again of the dream he'd just had – the look on her face, the feel of her blood on his hands. Lying there with her in his arms, he tried to steady himself. Took a breath, realizing that he was shaking. He closed his eyes, but all that brought were more goddamn visions.

He didn't mean to wake her – she needed her sleep, he knew that. But still, somehow when her eyes opened and she was right there, real and gorgeous and _Bones, _for Christ's sake, meeting his eye and looking like this was the one place in the world she wanted to be… It all came spilling out, from there.

And of course, she promised to be careful. Told her she could take care of herself – though with less of an edge this time, looking genuinely worried now at how freaked out he was. He told her she was gorgeous, and came out sounding like a pathetic loser. They kissed. She laughed. Got serious. Tilted her head that way that she did, fixed him with those blue eyes that followed him into his dreams, arched into him and wrapped around him, promised she would be okay.

"I'll be safe, Seeley."

Because she called him that, now. Not always, but sometimes – and it sounded good, it sounded exactly the way it _should_ sound.

They curled up again, his arms around her, and this time when he fell asleep, there were no dreams waiting. Nothing but black, and comfort, and the feel of her in his arms.

Until, of course, she turned the tables and woke him.

"Booth."

He groaned.

"Booth, wake up."

He opened his eyes instantly this time, recognizing the urgency in her tone.

"What is it?" he asked, sitting up in bed. Still dark, the sky just beginning to lighten the corners of the room. She had on his t-shirt, and her face was serious.

"Someone just left something – someone put something on my doorstep."

Someone just put a heart on her doorstep, actually. A fucking _human heart. _She called Artie, who promised to send Mickey right over. Booth called in and talked to Werner's assistant, knowing that this wasn't the best career move he'd ever made, by a long shot.

He didn't care, of course, but he still knew.

He was just about to call the cops, when Bones stopped him.

"Should we take down the pictures first?" she asked.

Good point. They put away the pictures of the dead women, filed all the index cards, replaced that Ansel Adams print he'd always kind of liked, and voila. Nice, cozy little Portland home.

Except for the fucking human heart on the coffee table.

"I need to tell you something, before you call the police," she said.

The sun wasn't quite up, but it looked like it'd be a shitty day – gray, overcast, kind of rainy. The neighborhood was starting to come to life: more cars on the street outside, dogs barking, a group of women laughing as they jogged past the house. He couldn't figure out why Mickey hadn't shown up yet.

He nodded, distracted until he saw the look in her eyes. Serious – worried.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, still wearing his sweats and no shirt, though the house was chilly. Bones was sitting in the corner of the couch, wearing her yoga pants and his t-shirt, her bare feet curled under her. She started to go through the files, until she'd chosen two photos and handed them to him.

One was the shot of Rachel and Abby in front of their house, and the other one was Abby after she'd OD'd. He really hated that one.

"It's not conclusive – only a theory, though I would have no difficulty proving it if I were working with bones rather than flesh. However, if you can look beyond the flesh to visualize the breadth of the nasal aperture, as well as the maximum breadth of the maxilla here – " she pointed at the picture of Abby as a little girl, then at the other photo. "And here, it's actually quite obvious. I never would have considered the possibility, but I began thinking of Lethem's implication that an unreliable – "

Booth held up his hand. "Bones – slow down. What the hell are you talking about?"

She looked at him, her eyes dead serious. "The post-mortem photo of the teenage girl… That's not Abby Martin. Anyone could see it, if they looked closely. _I _should have seen it." She shook her head. "She's still alive. Washington lied, Booth."

It should have surprised him more, he knew – he should've been floored, instead of standing there with the words feeling more like a confirmation of something he'd already known, somehow. Not that Abby was still alive – and he wasn't naïve enough to believe that was necessarily the case, just because she wasn't the girl in the picture. But whether she was alive or dead, all he could focus on was the fact that Washington had lied.

They had him dead to rights, and Booth figured it was long past time to figure out what the hell was going on with Agent Washington.

Before he could do that, however, Mickey came busting through the door. Bones was on the phone with the cops and Booth was just getting ready to call D.C. when he showed up. The ex-Ranger didn't even bother waiting for someone to answer the door before he burst in and stood there, his breath coming hard. His sweatshirt was on inside out, his thinning hair was standing straight on end like some deranged goddamn orangutan, and he smelled like he'd just swum two laps in a vat of Jack Daniels.

"What the hell happened? Artie called, he said I should get right over here."

Booth stared at him, a little surprised at his reaction. "Jesus, Mick, relax – we're both fine. Christmas just came a little early for Bones, is all."

He nodded toward the coffee table, but Mickey's eyes never left Booth. He had that kind of wild look he used to get after they'd gone on a bender – Booth had always hated that look, actually. After a second or two, the man pulled himself together, and seemed to realize what kind of state he'd shown up in.

"Sorry – we got back last night and I just…" he shrugged – looked at Booth, and Booth just nodded. He got it.

"Rough night, huh, Mick?"

The other man swallowed hard, and Booth would've laid odds he knew exactly what he was thinking. "I hate that fuckin' story, Seel," he said hoarsely. "I don't know why Artie has to tell it."

Booth put a hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye. "Yeah, Mick – I know."

Just that little gesture of solidarity seemed to be enough to pull Mickey back to reality.

"So, you're all right? And Dr. Brennan's okay?"

Booth nodded. "Yeah – she's okay. A little shook up, but she's tough. I'm gonna stay, though… Can't really see my way clear to take off now, you know?"

"That's good," Mickey said immediately, his breathing easier now. "You gotta take care of your own, you know?"

Bones finished up with the police and came over then, that faraway look in her eye that told Booth she was already sixteen steps ahead of him on whatever came next.

"The police are sending someone over. I gave them the typical victim profile, but there haven't been any reports filed of a missing woman matching the description in the past forty-eight hours."

Mickey tried unsuccessfully to smooth his hair down with his hand, giving Bones a little smile that she didn't return, way too distracted to be polite.

"Dr. Brennan – I'm so sorry this happened," he said.

She just looked at him. "Why? I'm assuming you weren't the one who left the heart on my doorstep, so you have no reason to feel any remorse."

Which just confused Mickey, of course, but Booth rolled his eyes. "He's sorry it happened because it upset you, Bones – not because he did it." He turned back to his old friend, who'd wandered over to the coffee table and was now kind of peering over the edge of the box.

"So, I'm guessing by the fact that you smell worse than the rotting heart in our living room, that you probably didn't make the rounds last night."

Mickey shook his head, looking so damned sorry Booth thought the man might break down right there.

"I just figured since you were leaving today, maybe I'd take advantage of the night off and hit the bar. You said last night – "

Booth nodded quickly, holding up his hand. "Yeah, I know – I figured that'd be the case, but I thought maybe we'd get lucky."

In the meantime, Bones was back at the coffee table studying the heart. He could tell she was itching to touch it – in fact, he was honestly amazed she'd managed to keep her hands off it this long. She looked over her shoulder at him before she picked up the box, balancing it in one hand thoughtfully.

"The police said not to touch anything," she said, clearly not happy about it.

"Well, yeah, Bones – we'll talk to them once they get here, though, see if we can get the case bumped straight to the FBI."

"I can't be certain of the weight this way – but based solely on the size, I don't believe this is a woman's heart." She looked closer. "It was removed by someone with medical knowledge – someone with an impressive amount of skill, actually."

"Wait a second – it's not a woman's heart?" he asked. Against his better judgment, he came over and stood beside her, looking sideways into the box with a grimace.

She shook her head. "Definitely not. I'm comfortable stating that this heart belonged to a human male, though I have no way of knowing approximate age." She paused. "Cam would know."

A male vic's heart, on Bones's doorstep with a ribbon around it. Suddenly, Booth had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who it belonged to. He pushed the thought aside for the moment, trying to organize his thoughts enough to figure out what the hell the next step might be. After a second or two, he decided.

"I've just gotta make a quick call. If anybody comes to the door, let me answer it," he told Bones. She nodded, but he got the feeling she wasn't really paying attention to him.

"I need to send the photos to Angela for confirmation – I told her I'd send them as soon as we got off the phone." Her eyes still on the contents of the box, still analyzing, weighing the evidence, looking for things he couldn't even hope to see.

"Good." His head was going too fast, he realized – suddenly, it seemed as though he'd just been jumpstarted straight into fifth gear, after coasting in neutral for way too long. If he wanted to actually be effective in this investigation, he had to start looking at things with a clearer head.

Start with the phone call. He'd figure out the next step based on what – if anything – he found out there.

It was almost six by the time he called Katie to follow up on his request that she check on any relationship between Washington and the victims. The sun was up, the traffic was steady, the neighbors were making the rounds… In D.C., Booth was sure another busy week was well under way at the Hoover. He only hoped Katie would be a little more receptive to his call today than she'd been when they talked on Saturday.

She answered her phone on the second ring, sounding a lot less hassled than she had the last time they spoke. Which meant she had something for him – Booth took it as the first good sign in a while. Of course, before he could get to that something, he had to do a little dancing first.

"You know, I had to stop in at the Jeffersonian on Friday," she said. "Dr. Saroyan was doing a simulation for a case for me, and I figured I'd stop by, see if I could get the results early. And, you know, maybe bump into you – just by chance, of course."

Crap. So, that would explain the cool reception when he'd called on Saturday. He glanced at his watch.

"Oh yeah?" He paused. "I got called out of town Friday, actually."

"Yeah – so Angela said. You didn't mention on Saturday that you were calling from Portland."

"Didn't I?" he asked, still trying to sound casual. It looked like Bones was having a hell of a lot more luck with her call, and Booth made a mental note to strangle Angela just as soon as they were in the same time zone.

"Nope," she said. As much of a knockout as she was in person, Katie didn't have a great phone voice – Bones had that kind of low, raspy thing that she did when they were talking sometimes, that just about undid him. Katie just sounded pissed off. Of course, that might be because she _was _pissed off.

"You also didn't mention that you and Dr. Brennan are together now."

_Thank you, Angela. _Silence followed. Long, long silence. Long, long, loaded silence, with a heart on the coffee table and Bones, sitting with her feet tucked under her and her fingers clicking on the keyboard, deep in conversation.

And he knew he and Bones had talked about keeping this thing quiet, pretending they were still just partners or just friends or… whatever , and who knew what the hell else was really going on, but he pretty much knew the conversation could only go one way.

"Yeah, Katie… uh, sorry I didn't mention anything about being here when we talked – I guess it just didn't seem important. But…" another look at Bones, before he sighed. "Yeah. We're together."

There. If Katie knew, the whole world wouldn't be far behind. Instead of being pissed off, however, she just laughed.

"Wow – see, that wasn't so hard, was it? Though I'm sure you know we're gonna have to put the entire secretarial pool on suicide watch now."

He rolled his eyes. "I'd be a little more flattered if the secretarial pool wasn't mostly made up of guys with great teeth and man purses." Before she could respond, he cut her off – enough with the chatter already.

"So, Kate – now that you know my deepest, darkest secrets, how's about a little give and take here? Did you find out anything about Washington or not?"

Did she ever.

"You're gonna like this, Booth," she promised. "June 7, 2007. Anna George went missing from her apartment in Vancouver, Washington. She was a Portland public defender – pretty smart cookie, if her record was any indication. She worked with Washington a few times while she was there, _but…" _She paused dramatically.

Booth scratched the back of his neck, starting to get really antsy now. Bones was wrapping up her call, and it looked like she had something – he only wished he could say the same.

"Yeah – I'm listening." Not exactly a lighthearted tone – Katie apparently got the message, because she picked up the pace when she continued.

"I did a little digging, and found out that Washington did his undergrad at Clark College. Anna George did her undergrad at Penn State, where – wait for it." Booth rolled his eyes, tempted to reach through the phone. "Washington did a year-long exchange program. Same year as Anna George, and at least two of the same classes."

"When'd he start working the Lady Killer case?" Booth asked immediately.

"'05. I'm not done yet, though," she said, before he could wrap things up.

"Early 2009, Maddie Banks went missing – she was an interior designer in Portland, right? Ms. Banks, it turns out, got her dog from the same breeder Washington did – "

"How the hell'd you find that out?" he asked, realizing suddenly just how distracted he'd been since this whole thing started. Here he was, being schooled by a junior junior _junior _agent, on the fine art of legwork. Jesus.

"Relax," she said quickly. "The Anna George thing was just luck – Washington's Penn State exchange wasn't on the transcript, but there was a gap in dates that I followed up on. The dog thing was brilliant, though – Washington belongs to this Bulldog Lovers of America group, and I remembered seeing something in Maddie Banks's file about her bulldog being left behind, so…"

"So you're a genius," Booth said. "I owe you."

"You have no idea," she returned quickly. "I skipped out on a party Saturday night, and got in a huge fight with my boyfriend over the whole thing on Sunday. So… Yeah. You owe me, Seeley. We'll just see how long this thing with Dr. Brennan lasts before I decide how to collect."

He allowed a grin, though he was already itching to get off the phone and get the day moving. "I'll be in touch. Thanks again, Kate."

The police showed up about three seconds after he got off the phone, which meant he had no time to find out what Bones had found out – but from the look on her face, he was pretty sure she'd confirmed that the dead girl wasn't Abby Martin. The cops asked some questions and took the heart into custody, but once they'd gotten an abbreviated story about why Bones was out there, they agreed that the Feds would probably be taking over the case – and sooner, rather than later.

Mickey had taken off around the time the cops came in – he'd never been much of a fan of the long arm of the law, so Booth wasn't surprised. By the time everyone had left and he and Bones were alone again, it felt like it should be at least noon time – which was why Booth did a little bit of a double take when he checked his watch and found that it wasn't even seven-thirty.

"So, what'd you find out?" he asked, watching her for signs that this was getting to her. There weren't any – she looked determined, and he was a little afraid of just how where that determination was gonna take them.

"It wasn't Abby Martin. And the heart is definitely male – based on the size, and just the amount of plaque buildup I could see from my admittedly limited view, I would estimate the age to be at least forty years."

Which didn't exactly confirm what he'd been thinking about the guy who'd had that same heart thumping in his chest until a few hours ago, but it sure as hell didn't prove him wrong. He still wanted to hold off before he had that conversation with Bones, though. Instead, he nodded toward her phone.

"I need you to do me a favor and call Washington – tell him we're on our way over."

She looked at him knowingly, making no move toward her phone. "You're angry with him."

He'd been so busy trying to figure out what came next, he hadn't even really noticed how pissed off he was, to be honest. But now that Bones mentioned it… He took a breath, realizing how tight his back was and just how much he was itching to get Washington alone for a good heart to heart. So… Yeah, come to think of it. Turns out, he was a little angry.

"I'm fine, Bones – I just wanna talk to him."

"Well, perhaps I should talk to him first, and you can just convey your message through me. Until you have the time to cool down."

"Bones." She crossed her arms over her chest, raised her eyebrows. Just waiting for him to lie to her. He sighed, beaten before he'd even started.

"Look, Bones, you're right – I'm pissed. But I still need to talk to him, and there's no way in hell he's letting me in his place after the way our last little talk ended."

"You can't beat him up again," she said seriously.

"Bones, would you give me a little credit, please? What do you think, I've got no self- control at all? I'll be cool as a cucumber, all right? I just need to talk to him."

She grudgingly took the phone from him, then paused again before she dialed.

"If you attack him, you could be fired – "

"God, Bones – yeah, I get it. I promise, all right? There won't be a problem."

* * *

Except that the whole ride over, he could feel the anger rising, until his hands were tight on the wheel and Bones just kept looking over at him, like she knew exactly what was going on in his head. Washington buzzed them in as soon as they got there – Bones had told him about her early morning delivery, so he was apparently pretty anxious to talk, anyway.

They were silent on the way up to his apartment, Booth so caught up in what he'd learned and what he needed to find out and how to approach it, that he barely noticed the way Bones was getting more and more withdrawn.

In fact, he didn't notice at all until they got to Washington's door – his adrenaline surging, anger just below the surface, and that damned promise that he'd keep his temper the only thing that kept him from busting down the door before Washington even had a chance to open it.

That was as far as he got, though, because while he'd been having his own inner battle about keeping his cool, Bones had apparently been having one herself.

Only Bones, it turned out, didn't come out on top of that battle.

Washington had barely opened up before Bones was through, backing him against the wall with her eyes blazing.

"Why did you tell me Abby Martin was dead?" she demanded, a mix of fury and genuine grief on her face that shook Booth – she'd seemed so calm all morning, but he should've known there was more going on than she was saying. "You lied to me. You lied to get me out here, played on my history and manipulated my emotions by fabricating evidence."

Booth stood back and watched for a second, knowing Washington was in no real danger – maybe a black eye or a swollen nut, but Booth was willing to bet the agent had seen worse.

"You're right," Washington said – he didn't even try to deny it, come up with a story or an excuse. He was quiet when he said it, not nearly as dangerous as he'd seemed to Booth the other day. The apartment was clean now, the agent dressed in a suit, ready to face another day on the job.

"Why did you lie to me?" Bones repeated – that ridiculous innocence on her face, like it was completely out of the realm of possibility that anyone would do such a thing, even though she dealt with this shit every damn day.

"Would you have come if I hadn't?" Washington asked. Still calm, a little too in control for Booth's taste.

Bones backed away, so that she and the other agent were still standing face to face against the wall, but Washington had a little more breathing room than he'd had a minute ago. She thought about the question for a second, before she finally answered honestly.

"No," she admitted. "I probably wouldn't have."

Booth went into the kitchen and got himself a Coke from the fridge, letting the two of them sort this part out on their own. He came back a minute later and sat down on the ugly green sofa, cracked open the soda, and took a long drink, before he finally said a word.

"Tell me about Anna George, Alex," he said quietly. He set the soda down on the coffee table, pushed it forward a little, just for something to do. Then he looked up at Washington, waiting.

It was like he broke something, just saying the name. Washington swallowed hard, his jaw tensed and his eyes glassy all of a sudden. He leaned back against the wall, like standing was just too much effort, and stared at the floor.

"What does Anna George have to do with Washington?" Bones asked, completely lost.

"Ask him, Bones," Booth answered.

It took a few minutes before Washington seemed to find his voice after that. When he did, the apartment was quiet – only the sound of the occasional tenant passing by in the hallway, the cars six stories down, the pulse of heavy bass from a stereo down the hall.

And Alex, of course. Telling the story Booth wasn't sure he really wanted to hear.

"We met in college – I went to Penn State for a year. Anna and I dated, but I was… young. Still had ties back here, and she had ties back there, and so when my year was up, we broke it off."

He took a deep breath, still looking too far away to bring back – Booth knew better than to even try, so he just sat and waited. Bones came and sat down next to him, not touching, and a few more seconds passed before Alex finally continued.

"Then, about five years ago she ended up getting a job here. I was married to Sylvie by then – not a great match, but… Still, I was married."

Another deep breath. He straightened, went into the other room without explanation. Bones looked at Booth, obviously trying to figure out what the hell was going on, but Booth didn't move. He heard a cupboard door open, the sound of ice against glass. Washington came back a minute later with a glass filled with amber liquid that Booth recognized immediately as scotch.

The agent sat on the arm of a recliner in the corner. Drank like a dying man just out of the desert, and continued.

"I started working the Lady Killer case in '05. Sylvie and I weren't doing too well, even then. And then that spring, Anna moved out here. She'd gotten a job as a public defender."

He smiled a little – Booth looked at the ground, uncomfortable suddenly with what he was seeing.

"She was amazing, you know? God – stubborn. So fucking stubborn. Gorgeous. Funnier than hell."

He paused, for a long, long minute.

"So, you began a sexual relationship?" Bones interrupted, still trying to get to the bottom of it all.

Booth gave her a look. "Bones – "

"What?" her eyes widened, all innocence. "I'm merely trying to establish the relationship."

Washington kind of waved off Booth's concern. "No, it's fine." He cleared his throat, tried to pull himself together. "Get to it, right?" Another breath, another drink. "It was the day we found the note for Camden Marx. No body, no leads… Just another note." He laughed dryly. "I was really starting to hate those fucking things. Sylvie and I had a fight that night. I went to the bar across town."

Booth nodded. When Washington didn't continue, he said quietly, "And she was there."

Washington met his eye – almost like he'd forgotten anyone was there. He swirled the ice in his glass, sucked down the last of his scotch. Nodded, just barely.

"She was there. I knew she'd be there – hell, I probably picked the fight with Syl just so I could storm out. Just so we could meet up…"

Outside, there was a screech of tires, and a few drivers laid on their horns. Bones looked at the window, but Booth kept his eyes on Washington.

"There was no going back after that night," he said. Set his glass down, kind of took in the picture of Booth and Bones on the couch – not touching, but Booth had a feeling the agent knew exactly what was going on between them.

"We started sneaking around. I was gonna leave Sylvie, but her dad had just died and it was crappy timing, so I stayed longer than I should have. And then she got pregnant – Anna, I mean. About six months into things – I'd just told Sylvie I was leaving, when we found out. Not exactly something we planned, but…" He shrugged. "It happens, right? And once it does, you figure… Which is it? In or out? Because if it's in, it's gotta be all the way."

Another pause. Someone dropped something down the hall, and Bones kind of jumped. Booth looked at her, but she didn't meet his eye.

"We decided we were in," Washington finally said.

He got up again, but this time instead of going into the kitchen, opened a door to his left that Booth assumed led to the bedroom. While he was gone, Bones gave him a look – not confused anymore, just kind of sad. So, she knew what was coming, too. Booth leaned in a little, bumped her shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked. She looked tired. Sad.

She nodded. "I'm okay, Booth."

Washington came back in, carrying a thick manila folder. Sat back down on the arm of the same chair he'd left, and Booth got this sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't positive exactly what was coming next, but he knew it wouldn't be good.

He wasn't wrong.

The agent opened the folder, and Booth could see papers, newspaper clippings, random pieces from the case. He leafed through until he found what he was looking for – a plastic baggie with a piece of paper inside. Kept his eyes on it as he continued.

"And then June 7th, 2007 – a Thursday. Syl and I were sleeping in separate rooms, I had my stuff packed up, but she wanted to talk that night. So, I stayed…"

He leaned over and handed the baggie to Booth.

"The next morning, that was in my mailbox."

Booth recognized the message immediately – if it hadn't already been burned into his brain before, it sure as hell was after the package that was on Bones's doorstep that morning:

_Violence and art,  
__Your blood, my heart  
T__ogether forever,  
B__red in the Bone. _

He turned the evidence over, and for a second Booth felt like he might actually be sick. In bold caps and at least an 18-point font, was a name.

ANNA GEORGE

"He sent this to you?" Booth asked, trying to imagine what the hell kind of monster could be doing this.

Washington went into the other room and poured himself another drink. It wasn't even eight a.m., but Booth suddenly had a strong urge to join him. The other agent returned to the room with a fresh scotch, and this time actually sat in the recliner. Looked lost, a little sick himself, before he continued.

"Yeah, he sent that to me. Anna'd gone missing after her last case the day before – around two o'clock that afternoon. Her car was found abandoned on 405 that Saturday. Lots of her blood, nothing else. No leads. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. I talked to suspects, nothing panned out. And like that," he snapped his fingers, swallowed hard. "She was gone."

He drank the rest of the scotch in one long gulp, then handed Booth a stack of plastic baggies just like the first.

"After that, I'd get a note every six months or so. Always at least twenty-four hours after the vic went missing, always with the name of the woman they took and the same message."

"Which is how you knew all of these women were victims of the Lady Killer, when no one else was certain," Bones said quietly.

He nodded. "Yep, that's how I knew."

"But you didn't turn the evidence in – you'll lose your job for this," Bones continued – still not pushing too hard, which meant she had to be shaken up by what they'd just learned. But still… Booth knew how much she hated when the rules got bent.

"I knew if they found out my connection to the case – that the killer was actually communicating with me, that he'd _picked _the latest victim to get to me – that I'd be pulled off."

"And you needed to find Anna," Booth said.

The pieces were falling into place now, but he had a sneaking suspicion that that last piece wasn't going to fall so well. And when it did, he wasn't going to like the picture he saw. He took another drink from the soda, which was warm by this time, and leaned forward in his seat. Rested his elbows on his knees, and waited until Washington met his eye.

"How'd you find the mass grave a month ago?" he asked.

Washington looked down at the question. Dug back into his endless folder, pulled out the last plastic baggie, and set it carefully on the coffee table. Booth stared at it a second before he picked it up. Bones leaned in to look at it, and he could smell her hair and feel the warmth where her arm touched his, and he thought, just for a second, that maybe she was right – maybe it was a mistake to give yourself up this much to someone else, maybe it was suicide to let yourself love someone, when it could go so horribly fucking wrong.

The message was the same as the others. On the other side, however, was a map.

"The killers told you where the bodies were," Booth said quietly.

Washington nodded. "Yeah. But not Anna's – I told everyone I'd gotten an anonymous tip, and we got cadaver dogs out there. Found the five women who'd disappeared between 2003 and '05, no trace of anyone after that."

Booth stared at the note for a long time, setting it down on the coffee table to study the message. The anger he'd felt earlier was starting to rise again – he'd thought it was gone, but now that he had the final piece, it was back again. Stronger, now, so that it was everything he could do to stay sitting there when he spoke again.

"They were negotiating with you – you got that, right? Because from where I sit, this is a pretty clear message."

Bones looked at him, lost now. "What are you talking about? What's a clear message?"

"The note, Bones," he said, his eyes still on Washington, though the other agent wasn't looking back anymore. "Bring me the head of Temperance Brennan, and I'll tell you where you can find your girlfriend's body." His voice sounded strangled, a little too raw, and he was aware that Bones was watching him.

"Isn't that the message you got, Alex?" he asked, just this side of yelling now. "Because that's definitely the fuckin' message I'm getting. And from where I'm sitting, you've done exactly that – made up the story of Abby Martin dying, manipulated your office into doing exactly what you told them to, and now here we are… With somebody's heart on Bones's doorstep, and the only person trying to keep her safe a burned out ex-Ranger who's only in on it because I _called _him in on it."

Washington looked up then – tears in his eyes, broken in ways Booth was pretty sure could never be fixed.

"I need to find her. She's dead – I know that. I know how she was killed. I know what she went through before she died. I know what they did to her, I know how terrified she was, I know that she _knew _she was gonna die." He shook his head, not even trying to choke back the tears now. "I couldn't save her from that. Couldn't save our baby. And now…" He took a long, deep, slow breath, and leveled his gaze at Booth. Calmer now.

"I had six months with the love of my life, before she was taken away. And I've spent the past two years trying to bring her home again – trying to lay her to rest in the way she deserves. I thought if I did this – if I brought Temperance here…"

"What?" Booth demanded. "They'd just stop, like that? Take her, thank you for all your good work, and leave town?" He was on his feet, knocking over the coffee table and his soda in the process, but Washington didn't even move.

Before Booth could do anything one way or the other, Bones spoke up. She was just sitting there, her eyes kind of wide, kind of far away, and when she spoke it was like she wasn't quite with them.

"I have to go. I have to change – the workshop starts in half an hour. I need to go."

She stood, and went to the door. Just like that. Booth stared after her in confusion.

"I think they'll understand if you miss it today, Bones – "

But she was already out the door. No explanation, no nothing. Just… Gone. Booth looked at Washington, his train of thought completely derailed.

"We're not done here – I'll talk to you later," he promised, his jaw still tense and his fists still clenched. "From here on out, I'm on this case. We go through channels, we work with my people at the Jeffersonian, and if you get another fucking note, it goes into evidence, not your personal scrapbook." All of this over his shoulder at the door, intent on catching up with Bones before she got out of his sight.

He didn't stay for Washington's reply, stepping up his pace when Bones hit the button for the elevator at the end of the hall.

"Bones! Wait up – geez."

She didn't look at him when he caught up to her. Didn't touch him, didn't speak. Her mouth was a tight line, and she'd gone about six shades paler than normal. They got in the car without saying anything else, and he waited for her to find the words to tell him what was going on in her head.

About two blocks from the house, she rolled down the window and touched his arm, her voice suddenly urgent.

"Stop the car – pull over, Booth."

Her tone of voice didn't invite debate – he did as she said, pulling into a no-parking zone by one of the little parks not far from her house. She got out before he'd come to a full stop, and Booth was just getting out when he watched her stop with her hand on a giant old oak tree, lean forward, and throw up.

The sight shook him, for a second – made him stop moving, the weight of what they'd just learned gradually sinking in. There were some people tossing tennis balls for a group of dogs on the other side of the park, but otherwise the place was empty. No kids on the swings, no bums on the benches. Bones straightened, wiped her mouth. Didn't turn around, even when Booth was beside her.

"I'm okay, Booth," she said shortly.

He nodded. "Yeah, I can see that," he said dryly. But he didn't push her, instead just following a step behind while she got back in the car – in the driver's seat, this time – and took them home.

* * *

Once they got back to the house, Bones still wasn't talking much – not about tossing her cookies in the park, not about finding the heart or about Abby Martin or about Washington. Mostly, she seemed focused on getting to the workshop. Alone. There was a quick fight over Booth tagging along, but once she realized there was no way in hell he was letting her out of his sight after everything that had happened that morning, she gave up.

"You can't make fun of the other writers," she told him seriously.

He rolled his eyes. "I'll try to remember that."

And then, "You'll be bored," just before they stepped onto the sun porch where they were apparently gonna be held hostage for the next four freaking hours.

"Would you just go in already? Don't worry about me – I'll be fine. I'm sure it'll be fascinating."

Not as much as you'd think.

There were thirteen people in Bones's workshop, including Bones, Lethem, and Caleb. Fourteen, if you counted Booth – which Lethem pretty clearly would have preferred not to do.

The porch was stuffy and overcrowded, with a long card table and uncomfortable folding chairs and a view of the gardens. Once Lethem got over the fact that Booth wasn't going anywhere, he grudgingly set him up with a chair on the other end of the table, squished between two guys with graying hair and glasses who might as well have been brothers.

Bones, in the meantime, sat between TJ and Lethem, with Caleb running around like a mental patient, fetching coffee and photocopies before he finally took a seat kind of off to the side of everything.

By eleven, Booth's stomach was growling. Bones and Lethem were fighting about whether a book could still be considered any good if it was 'factually inaccurate,' something Bones kept hammering away at with all the students. Booth was writing down what he knew about the case so far, only half-listening to the conversation, when Lethem called him out.

"What do you think, Agent Booth?" he asked, out of the blue. And like that, all eyes were on the agent. Booth raised an eyebrow, set down his pen. Of the ten students, eight were guys; the two girls were young and cute, and Booth had a feeling they were only there because Lethem wanted them to be. Before he had a chance to answer, Bones spoke up quickly.

"That's all right – Booth is only here to observe."

Even though he knew she didn't mean it that way, her tone of voice still kind of stung, and all the old insecurities came back. Seeley Booth, tagging along after a woman ten times smarter than him.

"But surely you must read, Agent Booth," Lethem said. The condescending way he said it made it pretty clear he thought the exact opposite, which only pissed Booth off more. "I'm just curious about what you think about this – does a book with scientific or other factual inaccuracies mean that book has less merit than another that's less well written, but more factually precise?"

Booth thought about the question for a second, making a silent vow to burn every Lethem book he owned, the second he got back to D.C. Finally, he shrugged.

"It's not exactly my area, but if you compare writers like, say, you and Dr. Brennan," he said, and Bones gave him kind of a surprised look. "Dr. Brennan's second book starts out with that chapter describing how the first victim died – " he laughed a little. "I mean, it's pretty disgusting, but there's still some impressive details packed in there. And you get a good feel for the character, just based on what was happening when she died and all the sort of biological stuff that was going on just before the light went out, right?"

He paused, looking up to see if everyone was still with him. Apparently, they were – and Bones was actually smiling for the first time that day, which made the whole pissing contest with Lethem worth it, suddenly.

"Then you take a book like yours, David," he kind of drew out the name – Lethem looked like he was definitely regretting asking the question. "Let's say 'The Sister Suicides,' right? Where you have this smart plot, and things go at a hefty clip pretty much out of the gate, but anybody who knows anything about cops knows there's no way Fellsworth would've gotten away with the way he took down that perp in the first chapter. And, I mean, I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure anyone who's taken basic anatomy would've been able to tell that the first sister didn't hang herself, because you say right in the description that her hyoid wasn't broken."

Lethem looked genuinely pissed now – Booth shrugged again, put his dumb guy face back on. "But, like I said, this isn't really my area. I could be way off base. Bones is the writer, not me."

They took a break a few minutes later, and everyone – including Lethem – rushed the door. Everyone, that is, but Caleb and TJ, who were deep in conversation about something with the band. Booth was dying to stretch his legs, but there was no way in hell he was giving up a chance to talk to the two men alone. Bones got up from her seat and came over, standing a little closer to him than she really ought to if they were sticking with that whole 'Just partners' story.

"So," Booth started, pretty much giving up on even trying to seem casual at this point. "Bones tells me she ran into you back here last night, TJ. Pretty lucky coincidence, too, since she'd just had that run in with Farnham."

TJ looked up in surprise. "Uh – yeah. I guess it's true – great minds really do think alike." He shrugged. "I didn't really do anything all that heroic, though – it looked like Dr. Brennan had the situation under control."

Bones nodded. "I did." He expected a follow-up to that, but instead she just crossed her arms over her chest and looked outside, then back at Booth. "I'd like some fresh air," she said.

He studied her, trying to figure out if she was feeling sick again. She looked fine, though – just bent on getting out of there. All right, he could take a hint. Caleb and TJ were watching this whole exchange, and he really did want a chance to talk to them further. But… Well, Bones clearly had other things in mind. She started for the door, and he did the thing he was starting to get pretty damned good at: he tagged along after her.

It was foggy out – kind of cold, not quite raining but definitely not dry. Students were in clusters all over the grounds, smoking and talking, ignoring them. He'd already done a check of some of the key people there, to see if anyone was missing – as far as he could tell, only Farnham was unaccounted for. Of course, Bones had already told him the guy had been fired, so maybe that was all there was to it.

His gut told him it wasn't, but it never hurt to hope.

As soon as they were out of hearing range of the others, she turned to him. She still had her arms over her chest – she was wearing jeans with a sleeveless shirt, and he could see goosebumps up and down her arms. Any other woman and he would have given her his jacket, but she didn't look like she was in the mood for chivalry just then.

"I'd rather speak with TJ and Caleb alone, about this," she said.

He started to argue, but she stopped him with a look.

"I already have a rapport with them – you're the one who always insists that establishing a rapport with the suspect aids in an interrogation. The suspect is far more likely to open up to someone with whom they feel some type of connection. I've heard you say it a dozen times before."

She tilted her head a little, just waiting for him to argue. He shrugged instead – when you're right, you're right, and in this case, he couldn't deny that she had it nailed.

"All right, fine."

She looked at him in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah, Bones, really. You're right. TJ obviously has a thing for you, and I'm pretty sure Caleb's just scared shitless of me, so… Yeah. I'll make myself scarce, you stay where I know you're safe, and… Knock yourself out."

"Meaning, I have free reign to conduct the interviews," she interpreted.

He allowed a grin, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, Bones, meaning that. Just stick to figuring out where TJ went after you guys met up here last night, maybe get him to talk some more about whatever Doug was talking about when he said the thing about murder and mayhem… You know, the easy stuff."

She nodded. They'd stopped walking, and now were standing alone in a glade of evergreens. He noted the circles under her eyes again, feeling another twinge of guilt for waking her up the night before.

"You okay?" he asked, for about the hundredth time that day.

She rolled her eyes. "You have to stop asking me that."

He took a step forward, and she took a step forward, and when they met in the middle she just kind of rested her forehead against his chest. Didn't put her arms around him, didn't do anything else, but, still, the intimacy of that simple gesture was enough to get to him. He ran his hand through her hair. Kissed the back of her head. Didn't care who was watching, or what they thought it meant.

"I love you," she said softly, into his chest.

His throat tightened. He hated that it felt like it cost her something, every time she said it.

"I love you too, Bones."

She looked up, met his eye. "We should go back in. Perhaps when the workshop is over, I could take a few minutes to talk to them…"

Booth nodded readily. "Yeah, that could work. Listen, are you hungry – I could grab something. The kitchen must be open, right?"

"I'm not, but go ahead and get something for yourself – I'll meet you back in the classroom."

She rolled her eyes when he insisted on walking her back inside, doing a quick check around the porch before he left her. Lethem and the other students were already there, so he figured Bones would be safe for the few minutes it would take for him to track down some food.

Except, food was apparently harder to come by than you'd think, at a ritzy place like the Llewellyn Estate. He finally found the kitchen after wandering the halls for a good ten minutes, and had just charmed a turkey sandwich from the staff when his phone rang.

Werner.

He checked his watch. He'd been away from Bones for fifteen minutes. The halls were empty, but he could hear students and instructors talking behind closed doors. He only let the phone ring once before he picked it up, knowing there was no real way he could avoid this call.

"Booth," he answered.

"Where the fuck's my witness?" Before Booth had even really gotten his name out – Werner was usually a pretty calm man, but he definitely didn't sound calm today.

"I sent Taylor to pick him up," Booth said quickly. "Angela – Ms. Montenegro tracked your witness down this weekend, and he was staying under armed guard at the Hodgins Estate. Tight security, 'round the clock surveillance."

"Yeah, well, apparently no one was surveilling Ms. Montenegro. Taylor just got back – he said nobody knows where this kid is. Or Angela."

Shit, shit, shit.

"Let me make a couple calls," Booth said quickly. "I'll get it straightened out – you'll have the kid in custody within the hour."

He was about to hang up, when Werner stopped him.

"Hang on a second, Booth – I just got a call about half an hour ago from an Alex Washington, who requested you consult on a serial killer case out there. You mind telling me what the hell's going on?"

So, Washington had taken their talk seriously that morning after all. Booth managed to keep from breathing an audible sigh of relief.

"Could it wait until I deliver the witness to you, sir? It's a little involved."

Werner reluctantly agreed, and thirty seconds later Booth was dialing Angela – who didn't pick up. He tried Cam, figuring he needed to talk to her about the Lady Killer case, anyway.

"Please tell me you're not really still in Oregon," Cam said, as soon as she picked up the phone.

"Please tell me you know where the hell Angela is," he said, a little louder than he'd intended.

He'd polished off his turkey sandwich, and now was on the last leg of the marathon trek back to the sun porch. Twenty-five minutes with Bones out of his sight, and he was starting to get nervous.

"Why are you yelling at me, Seeley?" Cam asked calmly. "I have no idea where Angela is, and I'll tell you why." She took a breath, and Booth could hear her gearing up for something. Perfect.

"Apparently, after _you _recruited her to track down this lost puppy who may or may not have seen a big mobster murder, and then left town to spend the weekend with your girlfriend, Angela freaked out. No one knows why, no one has a clue what's going on in that ridiculous artist brain of hers. But as far as I can tell, Seeley Booth, you're responsible. _And_ you're responsible for sending my chief forensic anthropologist across the country for reasons none of us can grasp. And then this morning, I arrived to find Angela working on some mysterious case for Dr. Brennan involving a teenage girl who may or may not be deceased."

He didn't even waste his breath trying to defend himself. "Yeah, I know, Cam - everything's my fault. But maybe we can put that aside for now and just figure out where the hell Angela is. Because I've got Werner climbing up my ass, I've got a case out here that's killing me, and I've apparently got a freaked out artist who's taken my federal witness hostage. So, please, for the love of God, just tell me – where the hell is Angela?"

He hadn't actually meant to yell, but he sort of felt better once he had. Cam paused a second before she finally answered.

"You all right, Seel? Because I'm no mind reader, but I'm starting to sense a little tension," she said, dry as hell.

"Honest to God, Camille, I'm begging."

She sighed. "Fine. But I honestly don't know where she is – she got off the phone with Dr. Brennan, told me she had to take a personal day, and left. With her juvenile delinquent groupie witness in tow, I might add."

"She's not taking my calls. Is Hodgins there?"

"He's here. I had this crazy idea that we might actually try to get something done this week, but clearly I was delusional. Did you want to speak with him?"

"Yeah, Cam, that'd be great," he said, choosing to ignore her sarcasm. He got to the sun porch and peeked inside, counting bodies. All present and accounted for, with one notable exception.

Fuck.

Cam was getting Hodgins when Bones's call came through, and Booth was grateful he'd only lost about ten years off his life in the ninety seconds he'd realized she was gone.

"Where the hell are you?" he asked.

"I'm at the car, where the hell are you?" she returned evenly. "I just got a call from Washington – they found Jason Farnham's body in a ravine off Route 26. Alex wants us to meet him there."

He switched back to Cam's call while he was racing for the parking lot. Hodgins was waiting for him.

"What the hell's going on with your girlfriend?" Booth demanded, just as he came 'round the bend to find Bones sitting impatiently on the hood of her car.

"Dude, I have no idea," Hodgins said, without hesitation. "She's been weird ever since we got back from Outward Bound, but then Terry came along this weekend and she just lost it."

"You know she kidnapped my witness, right?" he asked, slowing down to a walk now that he had Bones in his sights.

"Yeah, I heard rumors," Hodgins responded. "Look – this is Angela, right? You've just gotta wait her out. Sometimes, she gets kind of like a little kid – doesn't think things through until it's too late, that kind of thing. But give her some time, a little space, and she'll come around. You'll see."

"Yeah, Hodgins, that's great – except _she's got my fucking witness!_" he shouted.

Bones was right in front of him now, her hand out, palm up, waiting for the car keys. Booth rolled his eyes.

"I'll drive," he said.

"Are you talking to Dr. Brennan?" Hodgins wanted to know.

"Yeah, Hodgins, I'm talking to Dr. Brennan."

"How's she doing? It's not the same without her, you know – life's pretty dull. Well – it _was _dull, until Angela found that kid and we took him home with us. Things were actually pretty exciting this weekend, thanks to Terry."

"Hodgins, for the love of God, can I get you to focus here?" Booth pleaded, ignoring Bones and going straight to the driver's seat.

"I need you to find Angela," he continued. "Talk to her. If nothing else matters to her, if nothing else gets through, just explain to her that if she doesn't return Terry to the nice FBI men who want to save his life, I'm gonna lose my job. And I've got a kid to support, okay? I've got rent and a car payment and, every so often, I like to splurge and buy myself a beer. So I really can't afford to lose my fucking job because she's out bonding with _my _witness."

"I'll tell her," Hodgins said quickly.

Booth took a deep breath. He was jammed behind the steering wheel with Bones looking at him funny, so he managed to settle down a little while he was wrapping up the call.

"Good," he said. "Call me back when you've heard from her, so I can let Werner know what's going on."

He hung up.

"You don't look good," Bones told him seriously.

He shook his head, laughed out loud. "You and your squints really are gonna kill me one day." He turned to look at her, noting that she looked kind of drawn, kind of pale.

"We got a body?"

She nodded. "Farnham." There was a pause, before she continued. "I knew it was him," she admitted, to his surprise. "Though there was no logical way for me to know, I just…"

"Had a feeling?" Booth asked.

Another nod. He started up the car, got them on the road before he said anything more.

"It was logical, actually," he said. She looked at him curiously. He shrugged. "Whoever this guy is – or these guys are, whatever… Whoever it is, they definitely have a thing for you. Maybe believe they're protecting you. The ribbon, the message… It was supposed to be a gift, for you."

She shook her head, her eyes filled with tears when she looked at him again. "I disliked Jason Farnham, but I didn't want him to die," she said, her voice kind of choked.

He reached over and took her hand. "I know that, Bones. Anybody who's not batshit crazy would know it, too. But that's not who we're dealing with here."

She actually laughed at that, scrubbing the tears from her eyes. "Haven't they heard of sending flowers? I'm hardly an expert on relationships, but I imagine theirs would have been much more successful if they'd just purchased some roses or perhaps a bouquet of wildflowers, instead of resorting to such drastic measures."

He chuckled, but he didn't let go of her hand, and she didn't let go of his. The fog gave way to rain about halfway there, the hillsides and trees bright green against the backdrop of gray as he drove farther along 26. The site was easy to find, off the shoulder of a four-lane highway not far from a seedy looking, deserted bus stop – though four cruisers with lights flashing, the coroner's van, and a tow truck didn't hurt the cause any.

Washington was standing on the side of the road with the rain dripping down his face, his suit clinging to him, no umbrella to be seen. Booth wondered if maybe the man had actually lost it after all this, but when he turned to greet them, his eyes seemed clear and focused.

"Somebody reported a car matching Farnham's in the ravine off the shoulder here."

Booth nodded, noting the tread marks clearly visible going down the embankment. He peered over the edge, where it was hard to see much of anything beyond the thick undergrowth of tall, moss covered trees and vines. Of course, it would have been tough for even the thickest undergrowth to hide the maroon Corolla nestled in among them, or the swarm of cops working around it.

"Body's inside?" he asked.

"Body's inside," Washington confirmed.

Bones was already headed down the embankment before Booth could even think of stopping her. Glad he was wearing sneakers for a change – and crappy ones, at that – he looked at Washington, who shrugged. The two men half-walked, half-slid down the mud and moss-covered hillside after her, focused now on the crime scene waiting below.

Bones was talking to the coroner by the time he got down there. Jason Farnham's body was lying in the mud, his face covered with bruises, one of his eyes swollen shut and his left arm hanging at a weird angle. Booth turned away with a grimace when he saw the way the chest was ripped open.

"He was severely beaten before he was killed," Bones said.

The coroner was a woman about ten years older and thirty pounds heavier than his partner, her hair pulled back in a tight bun.

"I won't know cause of death for sure until we get him on the table, but it looks like blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Somebody didn't like this guy," the woman noted dryly.

Washington stared at the body.

"It doesn't fit the M.O.," he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself.

Booth nodded. "They don't have an M.O. anymore – they don't need one. They've got Bones. It's all about her, now."

The rain was coming down hard now, so that his jacket was plastered to his body, the cold seeping through until he felt chilled straight through. Bones was shivering, still with no coat on, crouched down over the body looking over the crime scene. Above them, he could hear cars passing by on the highway – no doubt slowing down at sight of the flashing lights, trying to figure out what was going on. In among the thick, wet leaves were abandoned tires and soda cans, a couple of crumpled McDonald's bags and a little kid's toy stethoscope.

Bones straightened and came over to him, not even noticing that she was shivering so much her teeth were chattering.

"Do we have the ability to involve the Jeffersonian now?" she asked, including Washington in the question.

The other agent nodded. "Yeah – I talked to the boss here, and gave Werner a call out in D.C. Whatever you need… It's your call now."

Bones surveyed the scene. "I'd like photographs taken and sent directly to the Jeffersonian," she told Booth. "I want to be copied on any accompanying documentation, including the coroner's report."

Booth nodded, then raised his voice to address the team surrounding him. "All right – this is officially a federal investigation. I need the perimeter taped off and everything bagged and tagged and sent straight to the Feds."

He approached the coroner, flashed his badge.

She was wearing coveralls and a raincoat – something everyone else had also been thinking enough to bring along. Not only was he cold and soaking wet, but he looked like an unprofessional moron. He straightened a little, looked around.

"You think you can scare up an extra pair of coveralls, maybe a slicker or two?" he asked.

She yelled to one of the cops taking pictures of the car.

"Hey – Gene. You wanna grab these people something before they freeze to death, start thinking we don't play nice in Oregon?"

Gene showed up a few minutes later with a pair of blue coveralls and three raincoats – Booth could have kissed the man. He took the coveralls to Bones, who had snagged someone's flashlight and was looking in every nook and cranny of the car. He didn't know what the hell she was looking for, but she definitely seemed intent.

"Bones – here, if you're not gonna let me take you home, at least put these on."

She looked up in surprise. Her lips had gone blue, her teeth still chattering.

"There's blood in the back, but Farnham was clearly killed outside the car. Look here."

She shined the flashlight on a few spatters on the floor of the backseat, looking at him with her eyebrows raised.

"What if someone was hiding in the backseat when he left the Llewellyn's last night?" she asked.

Booth looked at her in surprise. "That sounds an awful lot like conjecture to me, Bones. What happened to waiting for the evidence?"

She actually looked ashamed of herself. "I know – you're correct, of course. I'm not thinking properly."

"That's because your brain's frozen, Bones. Come on – this is gonna be a long afternoon, right? Let's get you dried off, into some dry coveralls, and then we can spend the rest of the day here trying to put the whole thing together."

By the time the car got towed out of the ravine and the last of the evidence had been tagged, it was almost midnight – which meant they'd been out there for almost twelve hours, trying to solve something that just didn't want to be solved. The rain didn't let up, and Booth eventually forgot that he'd started the day out reasonably warm and dry. He kept the hot coffee coming for both him and Bones, and finally, when they watched the back end of the Corolla disappear up over the embankment, he knew the day was almost over.

Before they left, however, there was one more conversation he wanted to have with Bones and Washington. He got the Prius going and turned the heater on high, then stood outside with Washington while the rain beat down and the other agent just stood there, still looking a little too far gone for comfort.

"There's someone I think we need to pick up for questioning," Booth said, looking at Bones to see if she was following him.

She nodded, like she'd seen this coming. "TJ," she said.

"Yeah – sorry, Bones," Booth said, and he really was. "I know you like him, but… He likes you, too. He knew Rachel Martin, knows Doug and the senator, and as far as we know, he was the last person to see Farnham alive last night."

She rubbed her eyes. Washington looked at both of them, waiting for them to come to a decision.

"No, you're right," she said reluctantly. "His name is TJ Wright," she told Washington. "He's a student of mine, at the conference. In terms of the basic profile, at least, he would seem to be a match. Thirties, white male, above average intelligence."

Washington nodded. "All right – I'll go pick him up. You guys want to be in on it?"

Booth looked at Bones, and made the call before she had a chance to. "No – you go ahead, we'll sit this one out. We'll come by tomorrow to ask him some questions."

"Do you need anything else from us, before we go home?" Bones asked.

Even with the coveralls and the raincoat, her hair was plastered to her face and her lips were still blue, her face still drawn. It was dark out, the water running in deep rivers through the middle of the road, the color of passing car taillights just a smudge of red and yellow in the downpour. Everything seemed surreal, stuck in slow motion, and Booth ached from head to toe.

He'd taken no less than half a dozen calls from D.C. about the missing witness, but that seemed so far away at this point, he just didn't have the energy to worry about it. If Angela wanted to be found, she'd be found – in the meantime, nobody actually knew there was a witness to the mob murder in D.C., so Terry O'Brien was a hell of a lot safer than Bones was.

* * *

Bones fell asleep on the way home – if Booth hadn't had that last cup of coffee, he was pretty sure he would've done the same. They got out of the car and staggered into the house, stripped out of their wet clothes in the bedroom – still without saying a word – and Booth went in and got the shower going.

"You need to get warmed up," he told Bones. She was still shivering. Still pale. Still quiet.

She shook her head. "I'll shower in the morning."

"It'll take five minutes, Bones. Come on – humor me. You'll feel better, I promise."

She didn't argue. He waited until she was under the hot spray before he got in himself, the water so hot that it stung his chilled skin. He squirted out some shampoo, and gently tipped Bones's head back under the stream until her hair was wet through.

"You don't need to do that," she told him.

He grinned – or maybe just smiled. He was too tired for a grin, really. "I know, Bones. I want to, all right? Give me a break."

He massaged her scalp, working the shampoo to a good lather before he rinsed. She kept her eyes closed the whole time, didn't really stop shivering, and he thought again of the story Washington had told. When he was done, he leaned down and kissed her on the lips – quick, not wanting to push too much on a night like tonight, but he was surprised at how strong her response was.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him closer. Pressed her tongue into his mouth until he opened to her, and they stood like that – clinging to each other, kissing with a kind of desperation he'd never felt from her before – for a good five minutes before he realized the water was getting colder.

By the time they got to bed, it was after one. Somewhere between the shower and the bed, the desperation seemed to wear off and Bones just got quiet again. They got under the covers – he liked the way she always curled in and wrapped around him, all at once, like she got something from him just being there, from them just touching.

"You comfortable?" he asked, once she'd stopped tossing and seemed to settle.

"I am." There was a long pause, and anyone else would be asleep by now, but even though her face was pressed to his chest, he could tell she was still awake. Still thinking.

"You didn't have to stay, you know," she said, looking up at him after a while.

He nodded, sensing the conversation wasn't over. "I know."

"You got in trouble with Werner. You could lose your job."

He kind of scoffed, though of course she was right. "I'm Seeley Booth, Bones. Come on, what are the chances?"

"You're only saying that so I won't feel guilty about you staying. You didn't have to stay," she repeated, her eyes intent on his.

He looked at her, trying to figure out what was really going on.

"Did you want me to stay, Bones?" he asked quietly, searching her face.

And just like that, her eyes were swimming again. Still, she didn't look away – but he could tell how hard it was for her, how terrified she was of everything coming at her right now.

"I don't ever want a note with your name on it," she said unexpectedly, the tears finally spilling over.

He pulled her into his chest, wrapped his arms around her. Her hair smelled like ginger and rain and Bones. She wasn't freezing anymore, but she still wasn't warm, and he pulled the blankets up closer around them. She cried in his arms for a good five minutes, until gradually it slowed and he felt her body start to relax.

She looked up, sniffling, embarrassed. Wiped her eyes, reached for some tissues on the nightstand and blew her nose. Looked even more embarrassed.

"I don't know how people handle being in love," she said seriously. "It's horrible. I've thrown up once and burst into tears at least twice, and I don't even know why."

He laughed a little, wiping away a tear that had slid down the side of her face. "Yeah, tell me about it. It's not like this all the time," he tried reassuring her.

She looked doubtful. "Really?"

"Really, Bones. I think things tend to get amped up a little when you're looking for a deranged serial killer who's after the love of your life."

She relaxed in his arms, running a hand lazily along his collarbone, biceps, shoulders, until he felt his blood start to catch fire.

"What's it like the rest of the time? When there aren't deranged serial killers?"

He rolled over and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. Kissed down the column of her neck, running a hand up to cup her breast, tease her nipple between his fingers.

"It's like… us," he said quietly. He could feel her looking at him, and tried to find better words to describe it. "It's like, remember that time when you went to the zoo with Park and me, and we had that fight about whether the elephants were happy? Or…we're on a plane flying somewhere great, and you fall asleep with your head on my shoulder. Watching a movie, and I put my arm around you, and you turn and kiss my cheek."

She stopped running her finger along his arm, instead settling her hand on his waist.

"Those aren't feelings, they're moments," she said, her voice already taking on kind of a dreamy quality.

"Well, yeah, but that's what being in love is, Bones – it's those little things that aren't stressful, and aren't huge or life shattering or scary or even sexy, really. They just… are. Like us."

Her breathing evened out. Her arm got heavier, resting on his side. He kissed her forehead, smoothed back her hair.

"Love you, Bones," he whispered.

He started thinking of all the things about Bones that just _were,_ all those subtle little quirks that had somehow blurred with what it was to be in love and why he was in it: the tilt of her head, the sound of her voice, the way she said his name when she was pissed (and the way she said his name when she wasn't), how being a good person wasn't any effort at all for her - it was crazy to him how doing the right thing just seemed like the most natural thing in the world, to her. So much so that, even now, it seemed like she was honestly baffled when people did all the shit they'd been doing for thousands of years - they lied, they cheated, they stole, and Bones couldn't seem to fathom any of it.

He thought of Washington again - of that look in his eyes when he talked about Anna. Booth swallowed hard, and wrapped his arms a little more tightly around his partner. Her hand found its way to his heart the way it always seemed to, her palm laying flat on his chest, and he put his own hand over it. He curled his fingers around hers, and closed his eyes. Pushed all the thoughts aside, and focused on what was: Bones asleep in his arms, her breath even and her body warm, her hand in his.

He slept.

* * *

The next morning, Booth was actually the first one up for a change. It was almost eight, which meant he should probably wake up Bones so she could get ready for workshops, but she looked so peaceful sleeping there that he figured he'd give her a little more time. He went downstairs to check his voicemail and make a fresh pot of coffee, relieved to find that there were only two new messages. The first was from Werner – still no sign of Angela or Terry, which wasn't a good sign.

The second call was from Angela. He was just accessing that message when there was a knock at the door.

"Just a second," he shouted, grabbing a t-shirt from the downstairs bathroom before he checked the peephole.

And almost had a heart attack.

He was listening to Angela ramble on his voicemail about why she couldn't hand Terry over to the Feds, but he deleted the message as soon as he saw who was waiting at the door.

"Surprise," she said, definitely looking nervous.

Booth ran a hand through his hair. "Angela. What the – "

A skinny kid who looked an awful lot like Shaggy from Scooby Doo was waiting at the end of the walkway, watching the meeting go down uneasily.

"You wouldn't believe the past forty-eight hours," she said, sort of peeking around him to get a glimpse inside the house.

"Please don't tell me that's my witness," Booth managed weakly.

Angela smiled. Well – sort of smiled. She actually didn't look that great herself, which is why he had mercy and moved so she could come inside.

"He's a really good artist," she said, like that forgave whatever had happened over the past two days.

Booth called out the door. "Well – are you coming, or what?"

The kid looked at Angela, who gave him the nod, and he hurried inside.

"Agent Seeley Booth," Angela said, like she was making some huge introduction or something. "Meet Terence O'Brien. Witness for the prosecution."

Booth shut the door behind them, suddenly thinking that maybe finding someone's still-warm heart wasn't really the worst thing that could land on your doorstep, after all.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

_Okay, youngsters - we have three more chapters to this puppy, and then of course the all-important epilogue. Thanks for everyone's support and nice words, you're all seriously lovely and I appreciate everyone's encouragement more than you know. And now... On with the show. _

* * *

Brennan woke up late the next morning. Late, and cold, and alone. She'd been dreaming of the crime scene, the images so realistic that the rain seemed to seep into her physical being. She was shivering when she opened her eyes, and she felt a momentary, irrational fear when she realized that Booth was no longer beside her.

That fear was quickly quelled, however, as she could hear him speaking – quite loudly, as a matter of fact – downstairs. She couldn't make out the words, but it was clear from his tone (and the decibel level at which he spoke) that he was upset. It was 8:45, which meant she had ten minutes to shower and change before making a mad dash for the morning workshop – for which she was woefully unprepared. Teaching with Lethem the day before had demonstrated just how much more professionally the writer approached the workshops than had Farnham, and Brennan loathed the thought of arriving as scattered as she felt.

The water was barely hot before Brennan had quickly run soap and washcloth over her body and re-washed her hair – Booth had done an admirable job the night before, however the fact that she'd gone to bed without allowing it to dry meant Brennan had woken with her hair looking like the proverbial rat's nest. She pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, and was already halfway down the stairs before the conversation Booth was having in the kitchen registered.

"… Because you can't just take a federal witness and skip town!" he shouted. "Do you have any clue how much trouble you could be in? How much trouble _I _could be in?"

It was the voice that responded to his tirade, however, that stopped Brennan in her tracks.

"Booth, I'm not trying to get you in trouble – you have no idea how scared he was, though. And the guy you sent to pick Terry up? I'm sorry, but not exactly confidence inspiring."

Brennan hurried the rest of the way down the stairs, and couldn't help but smile when she saw her best friend standing with a beleaguered expression, arms crossed over her chest, arguing with Booth. A man who appeared to be in his early twenties, in desperate need of a haircut, sat reading the paper at the kitchen table, seeming not at all concerned at the argument her friend was having on his behalf.

"Angela?" Brennan asked, still not quite believing her eyes.

The artist smiled, coming over immediately to give Brennan a hug.

"Would you please tell your boyfriend I'm not trying to ruin his career?" she asked.

Brennan glanced at her watch regretfully. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I look forward to finding out – unfortunately, it will have to be when I return this afternoon."

Booth handed her a cup of coffee, casually leaning in for a morning kiss as he did so. Brennan watched Angela's eyes widen slightly as the woman suppressed a grin.

"Don't worry about it," he told her. "Lethem called this morning, workshops are cancelled today because of the whole Farnham thing. They're having some kind of memorial tonight… Everything else is off 'til then."

She looked at him in surprise. "Why would Lethem call _you_ to tell _me_ workshops are cancelled?"

"Well, he didn't exactly call me – he called you, and I answered," he admitted.

She set down her coffee, genuinely appalled at his words. "Booth, you can't answer my phone!"

Angela sat down beside the stranger at the table. "See what I mean?" she asked him, apparently alluding to a past conversation they'd shared.

"I saw it was Lethem, I figured it might be important," Booth said gruffly. "Besides, he's a damned writing teacher – what's he gonna say that's so top secret I can't hear it?"

Brennan rolled her eyes, sensing this would not be a battle she won. "It's a matter of boundaries, Booth – you can't answer my phone."

"Well, I don't see what the big deal is." He offered up his charm smile. "You could answer my phone anytime you wanted, Bones," he said winningly.

"And I'm certain Katie the receptionist would have been more than willing to give me all the information she volunteered yesterday, had she spoken with me rather than you," she countered, not the least bit charmed.

His face fell. "All right, so maybe you've got a point – fine, I swear I'll never answer your damned phone again. Geez, Bones. And Katie's an agent, not a receptionist."

Somewhat mollified by his concession, Brennan took a sip of coffee – finally taking in the information he'd just imparted. "So… I don't have workshops today?"

"I knew you'd get that part sooner or later. Yeah, Bones – no workshops today." He glanced at Angela. "I've gotta make a quick call, then I want to get in touch with Washington, see if we can talk to TJ."

"Booth! You can't do this," Angela said immediately, getting to her feet once more. Booth, however, was already dialing the phone.

"Yeah, Angela, I can – I don't know what the hell your problem is here, but I don't have a choice." Someone picked up on the other end of the line. "Special Agent Seeley Booth to speak with Deputy Director Werner, please. He's expecting my call."

Angela looked at Brennan pleadingly, but the man at the table addressed the artist before she could speak.

"It's all right, Ange – really. I mean, this was cool when we first started out and all…" He grinned at her. "Let's face it, having a sexy, older artist-slash-undercover-agent whisk you off cross-country is kind of… Well, hot."

He gestured to the paper. "But did you read what happened to this dude in the woods? I mean, the guy's heart was ripped out of his damn chest." He smiled at Brennan awkwardly. "No disrespect, ma'am, but if that's the case you guys are working on out here…" He shrugged. "I kind of think I'd be better off with the Feds right now. Hell, give me an X-box and a soft bed, and I'm totally cool with staying put 'til it's time to testify."

Angela stared at him in disbelief. "But what about that whole speel about not trusting the cops, and all those movies about guys in protective custody getting killed? You're saying the past forty-eight hours has been one huge act to get me to… what?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't know, man. What'd you expect? You come up to me all urgent and mysterious, tell me you like my paintings, you know who I am and what I've seen… And then you take me back to your boyfriend's friggin' estate, set me up in the garage, let me smoke all the weed I want while I tell you my troubles." He shrugged. "It's been a pretty sweet weekend, Ange."

Angela looked at Brennan, nodding toward the mysterious man. "Do you _believe _this kid?" she demanded.

"I have no idea who he is or what you're talking about," Brennan told her frankly. "Though I'm assuming it has to do with the case Booth said you were working on, and testifying as a witness to the murder of the mobster in D.C."

"This is Terry O'Brien," Angela said bitterly. "Who's apparently not nearly as traumatized as I am about this whole thing." She looked at him again, her forehead furrowed and eyes narrowed. "So – seriously? You thought I was just gonna up and leave Hodgins, and we'd have some kind of mad sexcapade while you outran the mob?"

He shrugged again, looking slightly chastened. "I didn't mean it like that. I _was _freaked out, okay? It's just… You're hot. And, to be honest, you were way more freaked out about the whole mob thing than I was, so… I don't know. I think I just got caught up in all of it."

Booth hung up the phone. "Someone's coming by in a couple hours. They'll take him back to D.C. from there," he told them, before he directed his gaze at Angela. "And then _you're _catching the first flight back."

"Wow, way to make a girl feel welcome," Angela returned.

"I'm serious, Angela," Booth said, and the look on his face made it clear that he was, in fact, very serious. He looked tired, Brennan reflected, and she wondered what time he'd woken. "I can't be worrying about two people, all right? It's all I can do to keep track of Bones – I don't need anything distracting me from that."

Angela bit her lip, and tilted her head. Her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears, and Booth looked horrified.

"Geez, Angela, I didn't mean it like that – I mean, I'm glad you're here. We're both glad you're here. It's just…"

She shook her head. "No – no, it's not that. You guys are just so… God, could you two be any sweeter? I just…" She trailed off, the tears beginning to fall in earnest now. "I'm so sorry," the artist said, looking both overwrought and unmistakably embarrassed.

"It's all right, Angela," Brennan reassured her. "You must be tired. Perhaps you'd like to shower, or lie down for a little while?"

Booth raised his eyebrows. "Shower and lie down? She doesn't have time to shower and lie down – I hate to be the bad guy here, but Angela is on the next plane out. I'm not kiddin' around here. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars."

"I don't know what that means," Brennan said. "But clearly she's upset, and she's been traveling all night."

Angela sniffled, barely acknowledging Booth's tirade. "A shower would actually be great – Bren, you think you could come up with me for a minute? Maybe I could borrow a change of clothes?"

"Hey!" Booth shouted. "Why is no one listening to me? Angela, you can shower, but then – that's it, you're out of here."

"Booth, you're being extremely rude," Brennan told him, before turning back to Angela. "I'll show you where everything is. Is your friend all right?" she asked, nodding toward Terry, who'd returned to reading the paper.

Angela rolled her eyes. "Apparently, my friend is great," she said bitterly. "Let's go."

* * *

Brennan intended on returning downstairs once her friend had selected an outfit, but Angela kept the door to the master bath open and continued talking as she readied the shower.

"So, Booth told us about this case you guys are working on – no offense, but… God, Bren, what the hell are you thinking? Aren't you terrified?"

She reappeared in the doorway, her hair loose at her shoulders, waiting for Brennan to respond.

Brennan considered the question for a moment. "I've been perfectly safe – I have a gun. And a phone. And excellent self-defense skills."

"And Booth," Angela added.

She supposed she should bristle at that, but she found herself smiling instead – then blushed, looking away precisely because of that damned smile. "And Booth," she conceded.

"Will you wait here?" Angela asked unexpectedly. "I'll only be a couple minutes, but I really want to talk. Do you mind? I mean – I know you're busy."

Brennan shook her head, despite the fact that she did, indeed, have a great deal to do. "No, that's all right – I'll wait. Go ahead."

While Angela was showering, Brennan made the bed and tidied the bedroom. She found a pair of Booth's socks tangled in the sheets, and a copy of Sports Illustrated that he'd apparently tossed in the general direction of his duffel bag (and missed). He'd left the duffel – still half-packed, rumpled clothing spilling over the top – leaning against her bureau. It must be very disturbing for him, she reflected, knowing how much pride he took in his appearance, to have such a limited selection of wrinkled t-shirts and jeans to choose from everyday.

After a moment's thought, she took a breath and went to her dresser. She felt curiously flushed, oddly daring, as she rearranged the drawers – consolidating her clothing in order to leave the bottom drawer empty. Then, she went and sat on her freshly made bed, and stared at the dresser. No longer hers – theirs. Their dresser. Her drawer, his drawer. Their bed. Their bedroom. Their master bath. Of course, it wasn't really theirs – it wasn't even _hers_, really. But, regardless, she felt very much as she had as a child when she used to play house – as though this wasn't actually _real, _but merely Temperance Brennan playing at being an adult. Honestly, she reflected, it felt too… good, too comfortable, to be anything but fantasy.

Angela came out a moment later, wearing a pair of Brennan's jeans and one of her favorite blouses, toweling dry her hair. At the presence of her friend in the room, Brennan forced herself to return to more weighty concerns – of which, it seemed, there were many. One of which, of course, was the presence of the stranger reading the paper at her kitchen table at that very moment.

"I don't understand what you were thinking," Brennan said, suddenly realizing the weight of her friend's actions. "You kidnapped a federal witness."

Angela rolled her eyes. She remained in the bathroom doorway, attempting to run a comb through her tangled hair.

"I really wish you guys would stop saying it like that." She surveyed the bed, turning to Brennan with a grin. "So, this is where the magic happens, huh?"

"If you mean, is this where Booth and I have sex," she returned dryly. "Then, yes." She paused, allowing a small grin. "Among other places." Before Angela could comment, she added quickly, "And I know you're trying to change the subject, so don't bother. Booth says you've been strange all week – is there something wrong? I know you said everything is fine with you and Hodgins, but…"

With her hair combed out and nothing further with which to occupy her hands, Angela came into the room and sat on the bed. A moment or two passed in silence, while she seemed to consider her response. Finally, she shrugged, pulling her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs.

"I don't know, sweetie. I just – I got back from Maine, and things were just… different. And then Booth and I were working the case, and I met Terry, and he told the story about the mob guys and I guess I just…freaked out." She made a face, running her hand through her wet hair before she continued. "Not that it makes any difference, but I knew the second we stepped on the plane that it was a mistake. I just – I honestly don't even _know_ what I was thinking."

Brennan sat down beside her, trying to puzzle out what was going on. Clearly, something was bothering her. Typically, Angela was very forthcoming about issues with which she was struggling, but lately she seemed completely unreachable.

"Are you angry with me?" Brennan asked suddenly. "I know I haven't had very much time, since we returned from Outward Bound – or even while we were there. I've been distracted," she admitted guiltily.

Rather than arguing the point, Angela remained silent for another moment – appearing as though she was struggling about what she should or should not say. Finally, she looked Brennan in the eye, chewing on her thumbnail briefly before she spoke.

"If I tell you something, you have to promise not to tell Booth," she began.

Brennan made a face. "Angela, you know I'm terrible at lying. And even when I _do _lie, Booth can always tell."

Angela raised her hand to stop her. "Okay, settle down, sweetie. I'm not asking you to keep my deepest, darkest secret for the next twenty years or something. Just until I figure some stuff out. But… well, before you and Booth hooked up – and please don't freak out, because I swear I'm so happy for you two I could burst into a jillion pieces. But before, you're the first person I would've told. And I just…"

Brennan furrowed her brow, disliking the implication that somehow her relationship with Angela had changed, simply because she and Booth were together.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked, running through possible scenarios in her mind.

Angela shook her head. "No – no, I'm fine. It's just… Remember when we were at Outward Bound, and I told you that last day about how I felt different. I felt like… everything changed, and I was suddenly like – you know, clear, with the marigold and the emerald blue?"

Brennan looked at her regretfully, wishing this wasn't the turn the conversation had taken. There were often times when it felt as though she and Angela truly spoke the same language, as their feelings on feminism, politics, and the environment meshed very well. When her friend began speaking in terms of light, line, and color, however, it invariably left Brennan baffled.

"I remember, but I still don't know what it means. I don't understand when you use abstract images to describe your emotions."

Angela nodded, as though she'd anticipated this response. The artist took a deep breath, put her feet back on the floor, and lifted her shirt to reveal her slim, toned stomach. She smiled again, very widely this time, tears standing in her eyes.

"Well, then… I'll try to steer clear of the abstract. Bren, meet Blue."

She put a hand over her stomach protectively, but it still took several seconds before Brennan had any idea what she was talking about.

"Angela, you're…?"

Her friend laughed out loud, her dark eyes shining. "Prego. Knocked up. Bun in the oven, baby on board." She sighed, looking Brennan in the eye. "I'm pregnant, Brennan."

"But – " Brennan furrowed her brow, struggling between wanting to be happy for her friend and the desire to focus on the logistics of the scenario.

"Outward Bound was two weeks ago. It's too soon to – "

"I just know, okay, Bren? I knew the next day – well, I didn't _know _I knew, but… I knew. And I took a pregnancy test, and… Yeah."

"And its name is Blue?" she asked skeptically.

"_His _name, Bren." Before Brennan could point out the impossibility of knowing the sex of the fetus at this early a stage, Angela held up her hand. "I know – I won't know the sex until twenty weeks in and yada yada yada. Just trust me on this, okay?"

Brennan searched her friend's face, putting the facts aside for the moment. Over the years, she'd been continually amazed at the things Angela just seemed to _know – _perhaps this truly was just another example of that.

"But you're happy, Ange? What did Hodgins say?"

Angela smiled widely, as though relieved that Brennan had finally come around to the idea.

"Yeah – yes, I'm happy. You know I've always wanted kids, and I'm not exactly getting any younger, so… I'm happy."

Brennan raised her eyebrows, aware that part of the question had not been answered. "And Hodgins?"

"Doesn't know yet. I just…" She ran a hand through her hair again. "What if we're not right? _This_ – " her hand on her stomach again. "This is exactly right, you know? I want this, I _know _I can do this. But Hodgins is…"

"I thought you loved him?" Brennan said, confused despite herself.

"Sure – sure, I love him _now. _And he loves me, _now. _But these things change, right?" Angela asked. "I mean… Okay, last week, I was in love with asparagus, and I bought like sixteen bushels of the stuff, and now I can't stand to look at it."

"And you think you'll grow tired of Hodgins, the way you grew tired of asparagus?" Brennan asked, not entirely sure she was following Angela's line of reasoning.

"Exactly!" Angela said. "See, I knew you'd get it. You say it all the time – by our very nature, we're not meant to be monogamous for our whole lives. Not to one person, when we live to be a hundred and ten. What if it gets too old? Too dull? What if I break his heart, and leave him some bitter shell who only talks about dirt and keeps pictures of me by his bed?"

"You ended it before, and he didn't do that. Well – I don't know whether he kept pictures of you by his bed," she amended. "But he didn't seem to talk about dirt anymore than he always had."

Angela considered this. "Well, yeah… But it would be different if we had a kid together. Suddenly, there's this _pressure_. Like, all the time. I just…" She shook her head. "You know what, let's just forget it right now, okay? It's just that I've been dying to tell you, and you've been so busy, but… There, that's it. Done. I'm pregnant. What do you think?"

Brennan didn't need to think this time – she leaned over and pulled Angela into a heartfelt hug.

"I think you'll be a wonderful mother," she said honestly. She hesitated. "I won't say anything to anyone, but," another pause, accompanied by a resigned sigh. "Booth will know – he just has a way of figuring these things out."

Angela pulled back from the hug, rolling her eyes. "He's not gonna know, okay? Just don't freak out around him, and I'll tell him when I'm ready."

The man in question appeared in the doorway at just that moment, knocking lightly as he poked his head inside.

"Tell who what?"

Brennan avoided his eye. "Nothing. Just…"

"Girl talk," Angela said smoothly, getting up from the bed without missing a beat. "Where's Terry?"

"Still downstairs reading my paper," Booth said. His tone implied that this was somehow an issue.

Angela headed for the door, calling over her shoulder as she left the room. "Thanks for the shower, Bren – I feel much better. I'm gonna head downstairs and make sure Terry isn't ransacking your cupboards for leftover oregano." She rolled her eyes at Booth, quirked an eyebrow. "Seriously – the kid will smoke anything. I'll see you guys down there."

She closed the bedroom door behind her, which meant Booth and Brennan were alone. The rain continued to fall in a steady torrent outside, the traffic continued wending its way through the quiet rural neighborhood, the minutes continued to pass. Angela would have a baby. Brennan wondered, suddenly, if she and Booth would still be together when that happened. She had an image of a small boy with Angela's eyes and Hodgins's curls, calling them Auntie Bren and Uncle Booth. It was an absurd fantasy, but the image remained regardless. Booth crossed the room and sat down beside her, studying her intently.

"So, did Angela tell you she's pregnant?" he asked casually.

Brennan nearly fell off the bed, before she recovered and smacked him soundly in the arm.

He recoiled. "Okay – first off, _ow. _What the hell was that for? Second…" his obviously feigned injury quickly forgotten, he looked at her triumphantly. "Did she?"

"How did you know?" she demanded.

He held up one finger. "First – you told me she and Hodgins weren't being, you know… safe, back in Maine." A second finger went up. "Then, she tells me this freaked out artist story about some yellow blob with a blue line through it." Finger number three made an appearance. "Then, she was all teary and quiet last week." He added his thumb, to make four digits. "Then, she shows up here. And you look all guilty and dreamy, like there's something going on in your head that's not about serial killers, that you'd tell me if you could but you can't."

"And I didn't," she said quickly. "And I fail to understand how being pregnant for two weeks can possibly give off such clear signs to everyone, when technically fertilization hasn't even occurred yet. There's not even a fetus, at this stage. It's barely a zygote."

Booth sighed. "It's a baby, all right, Bones? Not a fetus, not a zygote… A baby. A tiny, lima bean sized Angela, with crazy conspiracy theories and a whole bunch of colors running through its tiny, lima bean sized brain."

She grimaced. "Implantation doesn't even occur until week three – you're both behaving as though she's already carrying a fully formed human. The brain won't begin to form until week four, so I can assure you there is nothing lima bean sized about it yet. Angela shouldn't really be feeling any mood disturbances, even."

"Rebecca went nuts about two hours after she got knoc – uh, after she got pregnant," Booth informed her. "I just didn't know why at the time. How's she holdin' up? What's Hodgins say?"

She hesitated. "I think she's still trying to determine how she feels about everything."

"Meaning she didn't tell Hodgins," he translated. To Brennan's great surprise, he didn't look upset by this – it would make sense, really, if he had difficulty feeling empathy for Angela given his own history with Rebecca. Instead, he just sighed. "I was kind of hoping I was wrong, to be honest – she shouldn't've been up all night traipsing all over the country with what's-his-name. And I sure as hell wish she hadn't come here."

He looked so concerned at this that she leaned toward him impulsively and kissed him, resting her hand at the nape of his neck as she pulled him closer. He laughed, the sound pleasant against her lips as she deepened their kiss.

"What was that for?" he asked, once they'd parted.

"We didn't have sex last night," she told him, in case he'd forgotten.

"Well, yeah – I was kind of beat. And the way I remember it, you weren't exactly jumping my bones, Bones."

She rolled her eyes. "That isn't what I meant. It just – It was still…" She struggled for the words, feeling foolish. "Nice," she finally finished lamely. "Even without sex, it was… nice, having you here."

He looked very pleased for some reason, though she couldn't possibly say why. A moment passed between them, before he pulled her back into his arms.

"Yeah, well – I can't promise it's ever gonna happen again, but I think I know what you mean."

He pushed her back on the bed, pinning her with his body, his eyes taking on the darker shade she'd learned was a clear indication of desire, for him.

"Nice as it was, though..."

"Booth, Angela's downstairs. And Terry." She moaned softly when he pressed his hand against her mound, his teeth grazing her ear.

"Come on, Bones – tell me you don't want to, right now, and we'll just forget it," he challenged, beginning to stroke her through her jeans.

Her breath was coming faster, and she could feel him, already fully erect, pressing into her thigh.

"I suppose if we were quiet," she said raggedly, reaching down to run her knuckles along his length.

"Sure, Bones," he said, and she felt a sudden push of moisture at the way his breath caught when she touched him. "We'll be quiet."

An unexpected knock on the door, however, effectively killed the moment.

"Guys?" Angela said, mercifully leaving the door closed. "Listen, I _really _hate to interrupt, but there's a gorgeous black man on your doorstep. He said you'd be expecting him."

* * *

If possible, Washington looked worse than he had the day before – drawn and thin and eerily vacant. He was looking over some files on the sofa when Brennan came downstairs alone, allowing Booth a few moments of privacy to get himself in hand. Angela had taken a spot on the loveseat, while Terry was looking at the files over Washington's shoulder. Brennan noted that the young man's color seemed slightly pale.

"Agent Washington," Brennan said. "Booth told me we'd be meeting you at your office."

He nodded, standing as she entered the room. "We were – I just needed a little fresh air, thought I'd swing by. Is Booth here?"

"Upstairs. He'll be down in a moment. Is there something you needed to tell us?"

His eyes remained fixed on one of the photos in the file he was reviewing, never actually looking at her as he shook his head. "No – no, not really. Like I said, I just needed some air. We've got TJ over there now."

Brennan nodded. "Yes – that's what Booth said. Have you questioned him?"

Something troubling touched his eyes – anger or distress, though she couldn't tell which.

"I started to, but I think…" he shrugged. "Maybe you and Agent Booth would be better. I don't think I can… be there, in the room with him."

Booth came down next, wearing jeans and a dress shirt that he was still buttoning. He seemed to take in Washington's mood far more easily than had Brennan, and nodded as though he'd been part of the conversation from the start.

"Everything okay, Alex?" he asked. His tone was light, but his eyes belied the gravity of the question.

Washington nodded. "Yeah, but I was just telling Temperance – I think you guys should handle the questioning from here on out. I…" he shrugged, setting the files down. "I think I'd be better off on the other side of the wall, on this one."

Terry came around to the other side of the couch and sat down, picking up the files Washington had just set on the coffee table.

"So, this is the case, huh?" he asked uneasily.

Booth grabbed the files roughly. "Yeah, that's the case. Don't you have somewhere you can be right now?"

The young man looked around the room. "Uh – I'm 2,500 miles from home, no money, no phone, and there's a typhoon outside your door. No place springs to mind, offhand."

"Yeah, you might want to rethink the sarcasm there, hon," Angela warned him. She took him by the arm and bodily dragged him toward the stairs. "Come on – let's get you cleaned up before the Feds come drag your skinny butt back to D.C."

Brennan heard him say something about a sponge bath, before she focused on the conversation between Booth and Washington once more.

"Why don't you go home and get a couple hours shut-eye," Booth advised the agent. "We'll go in, talk to TJ, and then we can go over everything this afternoon."

Washington nodded, seeming somewhat relieved at the advice. "Yeah, maybe that's not a bad idea. I already left word that you'd be by, they're waiting for you."

"We'll meet back here at one," Booth suggested. "I'll have Art and Mickey swing by, and we can do a little quality brainstorming before that memorial thing tonight."

"Yeah," Washington agreed. "That sounds like a good plan. Maybe we'll have something by then."

* * *

It was just after eleven a.m. when the federal agent responsible for taking Terry into custody arrived - at the same time that Booth's phone rang, prompting a sigh of frustration as Booth read the LCD display.

"It's Art," he told Brennan, before taking the agent aside for a moment. "I'm sorry – I have to take this. You've got everything though, right? Paperwork's in order, you're not gonna lose him halfway back to D.C. or anything?"

Terry looked up at this – though he'd had an annoying air of bravado throughout the morning, that seemed to have faded now that he was actually being taken away again.

"What? No, he's not gonna lose me – right?" he asked the agent, before turning to Angela. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all."

Angela hugged him tightly, ruffling his shaggy hair. "You'll be okay. You just go in, play a little X-Box, don't worry about mobsters or serial killers or anything else, right? Maybe floor us all and paint something for a change."

Brennan was torn between listening to the conversation between Artie and Booth and trying to be polite about the fact that someone Angela clearly cared about – though the reasons for that attachment still seemed confusing to her – was being taken away.

Booth was still on the phone when the agent and Terry were gone, and Brennan patted Angela's shoulder comfortingly as the artist stood for a moment, her eyes filled with tears.

"He'll be all right," Brennan said, though of course there was no real way she could guarantee such a thing.

Angela nodded. "Yeah, I know." She leaned into Brennan, taking a deep breath. "I'm kind of relieved, to be honest. It turns out I'm no good at having somebody else's life in my hands." A second passed before she seemed to realize what she'd said, and lay a hand on her stomach. "I don't know what that means for you, little guy," she said, glancing down.

"You'll be fine, Angela," Brennan told her. "Perhaps you should get some rest."

She nodded. "You know, I think you're right. I'm just gonna go lie down for a while, and I'll see you guys when you get back."

Brennan watched her friend disappear up the stairs to the guest room. After another five minutes or so, Booth was off the phone and they headed to the Portland federal building to conduct the interrogation with TJ, as they'd promised Washington they would. They'd barely gotten into the car before Booth began briefing her on the information he'd received from Artie.

"So, Art got the scoop on those guys I wanted him to check out," he began without preamble.

"And?" she prompted.

"And… Doug's got rock solid alibis for five of the murders, and a pretty good case for the others."

"But if there's an accomplice, perhaps he simply wasn't the one who abducted the women initially," she pointed out.

Booth shook his head, putting the car into reverse and backing out of the driveway. "When Michelle Lowell was kidnapped, he was on spring break in Honolulu for the week. Alyson Hamlin, and he was on vacation with his mom in Italy. Sorry, Bones, I don't think he was involved."

"And the others?" she asked.

"Well, here's the thing – Ryan Jacobs, right?"

She nodded. Booth glanced over, to ensure she remembered – which seemed silly, really, since all she seemed to be thinking about right now was the case and the countless men involved with it.

"So… No sign of Ryan Jacobs, just like Doug said. And I did a little more digging, y'know, to see if he might have some ties to the other victims?"

"He does?" she asked hopefully.

"Nope." He looked inexplicably pleased with himself. "Because he doesn't have links to _anyone_. He doesn't exist, Bones."

She stared at him, her forehead furrowed in confusion. "But how can that be? Why didn't the police learn that immediately? Wouldn't they have turned it up when Rachel first went missing?"

Booth shook his head. "He did one hell of a job dummying things up, whoever he is. Stole the identity of a kid who died in Pennsylvania back in '78 – all the paperwork's in order, everything to the letter. This guy knew what he was doing."

"And there's been no sign of him since?" Brennan persisted.

"Not a blip on the radar – he's gone. _But_, I checked out some of the other cases, just to see if there might be somebody matching his description in the other cases."

She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.

"There was a janitor at Michelle Lowell's office building – Josh Reynolds – who they questioned and then eliminated as a suspect. He worked for the same outfit that cleaned the buildings where Alice Wilson and Cass Stryder worked."

"And what happened to him?" she asked, suspecting she knew where this was going.

"Dropped off the map, about two months after Cass Stryder vanished, in '05."

"Do they have a picture, or a description?" She was sitting up higher in her seat now, the thought that they may finally have a lead speeding her heart perceptibly.

"They're looking for one of his old ID badges, but the lady I talked to said he was probably in his late fifties, maybe five ten. Kinda soft around the middle."

Her face fell, as she considered the suspects she knew offhand. "But we don't know anyone remotely like that."

He nodded. "Yeah, tell me about it. But here's the thing, Bones…"

She waited, but he didn't say anything. "What, Booth? What's the thing?"

"Settle down, Bones – geez, so impatient." he laughed, turning to look at her more fully as he stopped at a red light. "I was just thinking… If this guy went to all the trouble to create new identities, he's probably going whole hog here."

Her eyes widened, catching on after only a second or two. "You mean he's in disguise."

He actually looked surprised, a slow grin forming. "Nice, Bones – I didn't think you'd follow that one. Yeah," he nodded. "That's exactly what I think. Lifts, make-up… Something. I think _that's _why no one's been able to find a common thread between all these cases – because this guy's right there in plain sight, switching it up every year or two."

"So, if we find who Ryan Jacobs was, we find the killer," she summarized.

"We find one of the killers," he corrected. "But there's somebody else out there, so… We've gotta keep looking at all the other likely suspects."

And like that, her excitement vanished. "You mean TJ and Caleb," she said, recalling Doug's enigmatic statements regarding TJ's past. "What did you learn about them?"

Booth paused a moment. "Nothing new about Caleb – and I still think he's too young and way too small to be the guy who did this. But you have to promise you're gonna stay objective when I tell you what I learned about TJ."

"I'm always objective," she said immediately, frankly offended.

He laughed. "Yeah, sure you are, Bones. Just trust me on this, okay? Hear me out."

He pulled into the parking lot outside the Portland federal building and found a space as close as possible to the front entrance. Stopped the car, and turned to face her fully. The rain was coming down harder now, and Brennan found it hard to believe that it could possibly be August when the temperatures were so low.

She took a breath, preparing herself. "Just tell me."

"Right," he agreed. "Okay – so, TJ starts out in with the cream of the crop, living the good life in upper-crust Portland society. His mom and Senator Woolrich are in the PTA together, wealthy socialite soccer moms with their rich, pedicured toes in just about everything. Doug and TJ are best buddies, with the world by the tail."

"Where did Artie hear that last part?" she interrupted suspiciously. "That sounds much more like speculation than actual fact."

He rolled his eyes. "I intuited that last part, all right, Bones? Would you let me finish? So, then TJ's folks start having troubles at home, and one night… Blammo."

"Blammo?" She stared at him. "Is that a police term?" she asked dryly.

Booth didn't acknowledge her humor, his smile suddenly replaced with an expression of genuine regret. "TJ's mom freaked out, and shot his dad point-blank, three times. TJ was eight at the time. Mom emptied the bank account, packed up the car, and disappeared with the kid in tow."

Brennan thought suddenly of the depth with which TJ wrote – the knowledge he brought to some of the more emotionally charged scenes in the chapters she'd read. Even in that first reading, she'd known those emotions could only be rendered so convincingly if he had some firsthand knowledge of the subject matter.

"Was she caught?" she asked.

Booth nodded. "Five years later, down in Florida. She got life in prison, with a shot at parole in twenty years. TJ was in the system after that, 'til he aged out."

"And his mother is still in prison?"

He shook his head. "She died in the joint, just a couple years after she got caught. Cancer."

Brennan fell silent, considering this – thinking suddenly of TJ, with his light smile, easy wit and casual confidence.

"And you think based on this information, TJ could be the killer?" she asked.

A moment passed in silence, as they each considered the question. The wind was blowing so hard that the rain came down at an angle, pelting the windshield and the pavement and the few unlucky passersby caught in the storm. Booth sighed.

"Not just because of that," he said. "He was the last one to see Farnham alive, as far as we know. And he dated Rachel Martin, right? And…" he hesitated. "There's the way he looks at you, which – I'm sorry, but that's not the kind of look I'm comfortable seeing on another guy's face, when he's looking at my girl."

She let the reference slide for the moment. "Booth, he's just joking around. He's flirting. It's harmless – you flirt all the time."

"Bones, that is _not _flirting. Flirting's a little eyebrow action, you throw in a smirk or you maybe lean in a little more than you really need to, hold someone's eye a little longer than you should."

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he looked immediately chastened.

"But we're not talking about me, we're talking about him," he said quickly. "And he's not doing that stuff when he looks at you. He looks at you, and it's another ballgame entirely." He paused. "And besides that… According to Sweets, we're looking for a white guy in his thirties with a strong maternal influence. You don't get much stronger than having a mom who kills your dad. Maybe it's in his genes."

"Then by that logic, I should be a career criminal on the run from the law," she said, her voice rising. "You should be an abusive alcoholic, Angela should be a… sociopathic rock star. We don't all become our parents, Booth – you should know that better than anyone."

He rolled his eyes. "Will you take it easy, Bones – remember what I said about being objective? I know you think this guy is the best thing since sliced bread – "

"I do not. I think he's a very gifted writer – "

"Who also happens to not be too hard on the eyes, and nuts about you."

"The fact that he's attractive has no bearing on whether or not I believe he's guilty," she retorted.

"But you admit he's attractive," he said triumphantly.

And suddenly she had no idea what they were talking about. She sighed, becoming increasingly frustrated with the conversation. "According to the arbitrary social standards by which men are considered attractive in our society – symmetrical features, tall, lean and muscular physique – then, yes, TJ is attractive. I didn't say _I_ found him appealing."

"Yeah, all right – whatever, let's just move on," his tone snippish now.

"Fine," she said shortly. "Let's."

A considerably more tense silence followed, during which Brennan waited for Booth to relent. Tried to decide if perhaps she was being too harsh. And ultimately, decided they should do exactly what he'd said – move on.

"We should go inside," she told him.

He frowned. It looked as though he wanted to say something, but she had no idea what. After another moment or two, he shrugged.

"Fine – let's go. Maybe we'll figure something out – it'd be nice if we could get back to D.C. before Parker leaves for college."

She bristled once more. "I never asked you to stay," she said immediately, which made him look surprisingly remorseful.

"I know that, Bones." He took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes. "Look, I'm just a little on edge about everything, okay? I know you didn't ask me to stay, but I'm happy I'm here. Just… truce?"

He held out his hand, which she grudgingly accepted. They shook solemnly, before he pulled her in for a quick – though undeniably intense – kiss, and then parted once more.

They went inside.

* * *

Inside the Portland Federal Building - which looked much like any other federal building Brennan had ever been in - Booth checked in at the front desk just before noon. They were being escorted to the room where TJ was being held when Washington intercepted them in the hallway.

"I thought you were gonna try to get a little shut eye," Booth said, and Brennan noted the concern with which he studied the man.

Washington shrugged. "Something came up. You mind coming up to my office first, and then we'll meet with TJ?"

Brennan nodded. "Of course."

Washington worked in a cramped, windowless room that was nothing like Booth's expansive office in D.C., on the fifth floor. Brennan was surprised to find a familiar figure seated in a chair opposite Washington's desk, his head bent as he filled out something on a clipboard in his lap.

"Dr. Taylor?" she said.

The older man stood immediately, looking just as surprised as she. "Dr. Brennan. I didn't realize you were…"

"We're consulting on Jason Farnham's death," she supplied. "What are you doing here?"

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, and she recalled Caleb saying that Jason and Dr. Taylor were somehow related.

"I'm picking up Jason's personal effects. And I wanted to see if I could be of any help." He paused, taking a deep breath. "I suppose I'm still in shock about the whole thing."

"That's understandable." She hesitated. Booth was talking to Washington, and she knew that technically this was not an appropriate time to pursue a line of questioning. But, she couldn't help herself. "I wonder if I could ask you something?" She paused. Booth was no longer speaking, and she realized that now he was listening to their conversation, as well.

"The last couple of times that I saw Jason, he said he wanted to talk to me about something. I just…" she took a breath, troubled by the topic and the direction it might lead. "I wondered if you might know what he wanted to say?"

To her surprise, Dr. Taylor smiled slightly – even laughed, just a bit. He shook his head, tears appearing in his eyes before he quickly wiped them away.

"I'm sorry. I just…" he took a deep breath, giving her a kind smile. "I know Jason was a blowhard, but he really did have talent. He was just horrible at marketing himself, and once my father started publishing him, I think he got a little too comfortable with the whole small press scene – never really honed the skills to branch out."

"I don't mean to be insensitive, but I don't see the connection between what you're telling me, and what Jason was trying to say," Brennan said.

"He wanted to collaborate on a project with you," Dr. Taylor told her. "He had the pitch all set, and he'd actually already written his portion… His intention was to work with you this past week, and ask you then. It's a mystery, told from two perspectives – yours would be the female perspective on the crime."

Her eyes widened as she thought of Farnham's words that final night. _I just wanted to talk to you about something. _This was what he'd meant. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, a sudden, irrational fear to run. Or cry. Or take the first plane back to D.C., before she ruined anyone else's lives.

"He didn't tell me," she said, fighting tears. "He said he wanted to talk to me, but he never told me why. I never let him," she admitted, her voice catching at the realization.

Dr. Taylor gave her a sympathetic smile. "Please, Dr. Brennan – I know very well just how off-putting my cousin could be. It's perfectly understandable that you weren't receptive to his advances." He looked at her regretfully. "This isn't your fault, dear."

His own voice broke, and he looked at the ground quickly. "I – I think I'm going to go back home, for now. You'll make it to the Estate this evening, I hope?"

She nodded. "Of course. I'll see you there."

"Good." He gave her an awkward hug, before handing his clipboard back to Washington and excusing himself.

Brennan took a deep breath, once he'd gone. Booth was watching her – as he seemed to be doing constantly, now. She ran a hand over her eyes, steadied her nerves once more, and turned to face the fray.

"Can we see TJ now?" she asked.

Washington nodded. "Of course. Right this way."

* * *

TJ was seated in a folding metal chair in a cramped interrogation room not dissimilar to the one in D.C. Brennan stood beside Booth in the observation room, looking through the one-way glass. The writer had his arm in a sling, dark circles under his eyes, and was wearing clothes that had clearly been slept in.

Washington came to stand beside them, addressing Booth rather than Brennan.

"So, you think this could really be the guy?" he asked.

Booth appeared to consider the question. "I don't know, Alex – you've been working this case a hell of a lot longer than us. What's your gut say?"

Washington actually laughed at this, his voice tinged with bitterness. "My gut doesn't know whether it's Tuesday or Timbuktu… I couldn't tell you. Why the hell do you think I brought you guys in?"

Booth nodded seriously. "All right. Well… Bones, you wanna go in first? I'll give you guys a couple minutes, then follow."

She agreed.

A moment later, she was greeted by a welcoming smile from TJ as she walked into the interrogation room.

"Hey, gorgeous," he said, despite his haggard appearance and the fact that one hand was shackled to the table, while the other was immobilized by the sling.

She sat down in the chair opposite him. "This is serious – you shouldn't joke."

He smiled, though very slightly. "Yeah, I'm getting that."

"What happened to your arm?"

He looked toward the one-way glass briefly, then back at the table. "I tripped, landed on a Fed."

"Washington did this?" she asked, trying not to show her anger at the revelation.

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter, really. I've been through worse." He paused, nodding toward a file Brennan had placed on the table. "So, I guess you're not here just for the conference, huh?"

"Booth and I are consulting on the investigation into Farnham's death." She paused a moment, weighing her next words. "Where did you go after I saw you Sunday night? Did you talk to Farnham?"

He got more serious at this, considering the question. "Yeah – we talked. He was pretty pissed, to be honest, so I was trying to talk him down. Explain why you reacted the way you did."

"And then what happened?" she pushed.

He sighed. "Then? I went home, stayed up late writing. I don't know what he did – he was still there when I left, said he wanted to pick up something he'd left behind the other day."

"Was there anyone there with you? Someone who could verify what you're telling me?"

He shook his head. "Caleb was out with Jamie – it was just me at the apartment." A brief flash of hope crossed his face. "I did call Addie, about midnight."

"From your home phone?"

His face fell. "No – I used my cell. The landline sounds like crap, so I almost always use my cell. I was hungry, thought maybe she'd wanna come over." He hesitated, looking inexplicably guilty. "You know, for a midnight snack."

The door opened, startling Brennan so much that she jumped. Booth came in and sat down beside her, sliding the file over so that he could look at it more closely.

"Is this when you guys play good cop/bad cop?" TJ asked, his eyes taking on a harder edge now that Booth was there.

Booth smiled easily. "What? Nah, of course not. Wouldn't work on a tough guy like you anyway, right?"

He'd adopted the casual manner that Brennan knew from experience could turn in an instant. She hoped, suddenly, that TJ didn't push him. Before he could do exactly that, Brennan interceded.

"We read your file. Why didn't you say something?"

TJ raised his eyebrows, laughed slightly. "It's not exactly something I broadcast – my mom whacked my dad and died in prison. Yeah, I try to keep that one under my hat."

She nodded, feeling foolish for suggesting otherwise. "I understand. But still… I wish I'd known."

Booth was watching her, she realized, before he seemed to come to himself and refocus on TJ.

"All right, so – no alibi for Farnham's murder. And as far as we know, you were the last one to see him alive." He paused, taking a moment before he pushed the file aside and leaned back in his chair, as though making himself comfortable.

"Tell me about Rachel Martin," he said smoothly.

The impact the question had on TJ was obvious. His eyes widened – he took a moment to answer, suddenly looking very nervous.

"Are you kidding? Rachel was… That was years ago. And – " he paused. "Are you tell me they're connected? This thing with Farnham, and Rachel Martin's disappearance?"

Brennan shook her head. "We don't know anything conclusively. Did you go out with Rachel, TJ?"

He laughed – bitterly, leaning back in his chair. "Did Doug tell you?"

Booth raised his eyebrows. "Should he have kept quiet?"

"No – of course not. I just know how he frames things. It doesn't exactly make me look like the world's most innocent guy." Another pause, followed by a deep breath. "We went out, once – Rachel and I. It was a week before she disappeared. I'd met her a few times at the hospital." He shrugged. "She was great – good sense of humor, beautiful, brilliant, hard working. I asked her out, she eventually said yes…"

"Were you going to see her again?" Brennan asked.

He shook his head. "She didn't come out and say it, but I don't think so. She had Abby, of course, and with her and work, her time was pretty tight. And…"

"And?" Booth pressed.

"And," TJ continued. "I just got the feeling she still wasn't quite over her husband. She had pictures of him at her place – lots of them. It seemed like they were kind of… epic." He rolled his eyes, before looking from Booth to Brennan and back again significantly. "You know what I mean?"

Booth actually smiled at this, though Brennan was lost. "Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah, I do, actually. So… You were in her house, then? Doesn't seem like somebody who's so concerned about her daughter would just invite some guy she's only dated once over to her place."

"Well – no, she wouldn't," TJ bristled. "I went over one night with Doug and some of the others from the hospital, for game night. We played Risk 'til four in the morning – she didn't like to lose. Showed no mercy."

"And you like that in a woman," Booth said. It wasn't a question.

TJ sighed. "I like a woman who's not afraid to be strong, yeah."

"Like your mother?" Brennan asked, her voice softer than she meant it.

TJ bit his lip, looking at her for just a moment before he focused on the table.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not all that interested in telling my sad story, okay? My father was a washed up writer who finished one incredible book in twenty years, and then lost himself in the bottom of a bottle. He slept around, gambled away every cent we had, and then sat and cried about his lot in life. I don't defend my mother's choices, but I know the circumstances, and I don't know that I would've done anything differently in her place."

Brennan studied him, trying to see what Booth did – some sign that he was deranged, some evidence of a genetic flaw that made him predisposed to kill. There was no such thing, of course – Booth knew it as well as she did. She stood abruptly, her gaze fixed on Booth.

"May I speak with you outside?" she asked.

He looked at her in surprise, his cool exterior gone in an instant. "Now?" he cleared his throat, struggling to regain his footing. "Of course – excuse us a moment."

The instant they were back in observation, he turned on her. "What the hell was that – you can't just call it quits in the middle of an interrogation."

"This is absurd," she said in frustration. "We have no evidence – nothing. I don't know what we're looking for, short of a confession. Which he's clearly not going to provide."

"Well, he might provide it if you give me a little more than two minutes and a bunch of softball questions, Bones."

"I was trying to be empathetic," she came back instantly, her anger mounting.

"Well, nice job – anymore empathetic and he'll be asking for a sympathy fuck when he gets out," he whispered loudly. Brennan took a step toward him, trying to think of some retort more civilized than simply strangling him.

It was only at that moment that she realized Washington was still in the room, as he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Here, why don't I give you guys the room."

Brennan shook her head. "No, that's fine. I'll go – why do you want me in there anyway, if all you're going to do is criticize my interrogation technique and dispute my interpretation of his story?"

Booth groaned. "You know what, you're right. Obviously, because you're _always _right. This guy who's clearly in love with you, whose mother killed his father, who's admitted he doesn't see anything _wrong _with that… This guy who we know dated at least one of the other victims, and who's linked by just a couple degrees in a bunch of others and who just _happens _to have been in both your fuckin' workshops and who just _happens _to be the last guy to see Farnham alive…" he threw up his hands.

"What can I say, Bones, when you're right, you're right. Obviously, we don't have a single goddamn reason in hell to suspect this guy."

She bit her lip. "You're shouting," she pointed out.

He rolled his eyes, settling down just slightly. "Yeah, well, I'm upset."

"Your theory may have some validity," she conceded reluctantly, weighing the barrage of facts he'd just thrown at her. "I hadn't actually looked at it in that context."

He sighed. "Well, that's what I'm here for. Now – let's wrap this up," he said, to her great surprise. "You're right. If TJ is the guy – and I'm not saying he is – he's not gonna confess anything."

"He's not?" she asked, frustrated that she seemed so far behind on everything that was transpiring. God, how she missed her skeletal remains.

"No, Bones, he's not. Come on," he nodded toward the door impatiently. "Let's get on with the show here."

He started to put his hand at the small of her back and usher her through, but apparently thought better of it at the look she gave him. Instead, he followed a respectful distance behind as they went inside to finish the interrogation.

* * *

They returned home just after one laden with groceries, to find Angela asleep on the sofa. She woke when they came in, trailing blearily behind them as they carried canvas bags of beer and other assorted sundries to the kitchen.

"Thank God – food. Do you have any idea how many almond butter sandwiches I've had since you left? I know you're busy, sweetie, but how the hell do you survive like this?"

Brennan looked at her in surprise. "I suppose I've just ordered in, or eaten at the Estate since I arrived. Booth said the same thing. I hadn't noticed."

"Well, thank God someone did," she said, nodding at Booth appreciatively as she began foraging through the grocery bags.

She selected a box of cereal, and hopped up on the kitchen counter.

"Hey," Booth protested. "That's mine."

Angela quirked an eyebrow at him, staring at the box. "You can't be serious. You honestly eat Wheaties?"

"What?" he asked, his voice rising slightly. "They're good for you. I got used to them when I was a kid, and I still… I like them, all right?"

"He likes the prize inside," Brennan volunteered, which made Angela laugh.

"Bones!" he protested.

"What?" she asked innocently. "Well, you do – you told me you do."

"Of course you do, sweetie. Fine," Angela rolled her eyes, re-closing the box and handing it to him. "Keep your Wheaties. I'm sure I can find something else."

He pushed the box back at her grudgingly. "No, go ahead. Help yourself." He paused. "Just… Can I have the prize?"

Even Brennan couldn't help but laugh at this, until even Booth was clearly trying to suppress a smile. Finally, he shook his head.

"You guys are a riot, you know it? See, this is why you're headed home on the next plane out of Dodge, Angela. I can't take this much Girl Power." He took the cereal from her and poured himself a bowl, before handing it back. "There – knock yourself out. Now, can we please focus on the case for a while?"

By the time Mickey, Art, and Washington arrived, it was nearly two o'clock and they were, in fact, all very focused on the case. Booth had put the photos and index cards back on the wall in the living room, while Angela set up a video conference with the team at the Jeffersonian, including Cam, Wendell, Hodgins, and Sweets. Booth had already briefed them on the basics of the case, and Brennan had e-mailed whatever information she could earlier that afternoon. Copies of the rest of the files and information had been sent by Fedex, and would arrive in D.C. the following day.

Once pleasantries were out of the way, Booth got down to business. He paced the room, stopping periodically to review the wall of information.

"So – now that we've finally got everyone on the same page here, nobody's going home 'til we've got a plan. We've been wandering around in the dark here way too long, just waiting for something to happen. So, let's get to it." He returned to the computer, addressing the screen. "Hodgins, you get anything from the stuff Bones sent you?"

Hodgins shook his head, taking center stage for the moment. "Not yet. I'm running some data based on the original findings – you know, the particulates under the fingernails for a couple of the vics, and the fibers in the ligature marks for Alyson Hamlin. It'd be easier if I actually had samples to test myself – I hate going off someone else's lab work."

Booth looked at Washington. "Can we make that happen?"

Washington hesitated, but nodded at the intensity of Booth's gaze. "Yeah – yeah, I'll see what I can do."

Her partner nodded his approval, then focused on Brennan. "Bones, what've you got for me? Anything we can use to find these guys?"

She stood and went to the wall, pointing out photos of the skeletal remains of Alice Wilson and Valerie Andrews.

"There are specific patterns to the attacks on all of the victims, but it appears the evidence is less degraded on these two sets of remains." She hesitated a moment. "I'd like to have the bodies exhumed, so that I can conduct a full exam – if I'm able to do that, Angela can input the data and create a simulation in which we can calculate the approximate size of at least one of the perpetrators."

Artie raised his eyebrows, emitting a low whistle from between his teeth. "You can do that? Holy shit."

Cam interrupted. "I've been going over the M.E.'s reports for the first three victims – nothing jumps out, they were pretty thorough." She paused. "I just wish you guys had said something sooner – we could've been working on this on our end this whole time."

Booth glanced at Washington, but said nothing. Brennan nodded.

"I know – but the important thing is that we're all on it now. We just need to move forward as quickly as possible, before anyone else gets hurt."

"Don't you think it might be wiser, Dr. Brennan, to move forward on this from D.C.?" Sweets asked, looking concerned. "Based on the information I've reviewed and the fact that the killer has strayed from his typical pattern by offering you the gift of this man Farnham's heart…" he shook his head. "I'm sorry, but there's no way they'll stop until they have Dr. Brennan – or have at least made some attempt, and died trying."

Brennan looked at Booth, who took this information in seriously before turning to her. "You see, Bones? We can do this part just as easy from D.C., right? Put a good two thousand miles between us and these sickos, and then go to town on the case."

"But as Sweets pointed out, they're already straying from their usual pattern – which means they may be getting careless," she argued. "This is precisely the time when I should stay, to wait for them to make a mistake."

Booth shook his head, the tic appearing at his jaw at her words – something she'd seen far too often that day, she reflected.

"All right, but if you're staying, I want more than just Mickey and me tailing you." He looked at Washington again. "I need three agents on her at all times, got it?" Then turned his attention to Mickey and Artie. "You guys still have the video from the reading the other night?"

Artie nodded. "Yeah, we've got it. I went through, didn't see a damned thing myself – but I'll bring it by later, you can have a look for yourself."

Wendell cleared his throat, looking somewhat uncomfortable for a moment before he spoke into the camera. "No offense, guys, but if you think this guys been wearin' a disguise this whole time, what exactly do you think you're looking for on tape? I mean… It's not like you really have anything to go on here."

Sweets stepped forward, shaking his head. "He won't be in disguise for Dr. Brennan – he's been waiting his entire career for this, he'll want her to see him as he truly is. This is a complex killer with a highly narcissistic personality, and an obsession with Dr. Brennan that will ultimately override his own instincts for self preservation. He _needs _to be seen by her, acknowledged by her."

"So she's had contact with this guy," Booth interpreted. "Maybe talked to him, had an actual conversation."

"This is all speculation," Brennan interrupted, suddenly frustrated at Sweets and his entire, absurd process. "You have no evidence of any of this – show me the data that supports your theory that he is no longer in costume, that I've spoken with him. I understand that he's strayed from his previous pattern, because you can provide tangibles for that. The rest of this, however, is simply more guesswork."

Sweets threw up his hands in frustration. "Psychology is not guesswork," he all but shouted. "Forensic profilers are not merely magicians or mind readers – it _is _a science. It's just that the data is more open to interpretation."

"Which means it is not a science," Brennan said triumphantly.

Several of the others – some at the Jeffersonian, some in the room with them – began speaking at once, until Booth finally shouted, "Enough!" so loudly that Brennan jumped.

"Can we please focus, for Christ's sake? Sweets, what else should we be looking for?" he asked, not even looking at Brennan. She felt a surge of frustration at her indisputable lack of control.

Sweets considered the question. "I still don't have a read on the second killer – except it's somebody in control at all times, somebody adept at maintaining a cool façade. Frankly, I don't even know that you'll have had contact with him… He may be on the outskirts of all of this, waiting for the first killer to bring Dr. Brennan to him."

"And so who's the note from?" Washington asked. "Is that the first guy or the second one?"

"I suspect the notes are from the first killer – the more emotional of the two, the one who perceives this bond between himself and his victims. The first killer is the active member of the team, but the second is the one pulling the strings. If someone is going to slip up, it will be killer number one – he'll be the one to make contact. The one who's _made _contact," he amended.

Booth nodded again, scratching the back of his neck for a moment. "Okay. So – you guys, keep doing what you're doing. We'll check back in tomorrow morning. And Hodgins," he said unexpectedly, just before they signed off. "Angela's on a flight tomorrow morning, eight a.m. She'll e-mail you the itinerary. You can pick her up?"

Hodgins nodded, looking undeniably relieved. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. See you then, Ange?"

Brennan looked at her friend, who had tears in her eyes. "Yeah, Jack," she said – sounding just as relieved as Hodgins had, and Brennan didn't think she detected a trace of conflict in her tone now. "I'll see you then, babe."

Once they'd hung up, the rest of the team spent the remainder of the afternoon going over strategies, ideas, and suspects for the cases. Brennan felt listless and on edge, weary of theorizing rather than having concrete evidence on which to focus her attention. Booth and the others were likewise short-tempered, so that by the time they were parting ways for the evening, she wanted only to retreat to a separate corner alone for a short time.

Angela was trying to come up with a composite sketch based on Ryan Jacobs's ID photo from the hospital, seated on the loveseat with a sketchpad in hand, her legs curled beneath her. Washington and Artie were talking intently, while Mickey – who had been notably silent throughout the afternoon – reviewed the photos on the wall. Suddenly, he paused at the address printed on the index card beneath Cass Stryder's photo.

"Hey, Art," he called, motioning the other man over. "That address – isn't that the building the senator used to own? That was her old place, right?"

Booth looked up. "Senator Woolrich?" he asked.

Mickey nodded. "Yeah – Artie used to do security for her all the time, didn't you, Art?"

There was a moment of silence, in which Brennan thought Artie looked oddly uncomfortable. The look vanished a moment later, however, and she decided she was imagining things.

"Yeah, I did a few things for her back in the day. I guess I remember that place – it was a long time ago, though."

"Yeah, I guess so," Mickey agreed. "But I just remember 'cause it was this huge old apartment building, and all the tenants were all bent out of shape 'cause it kept getting broken into. The senator owned the place, wanted us to make it like Fort Knox but she wouldn't put up a dime to do it."

"Did you know the kids?" Booth asked. "Or the husband – who was she married to, back then?"

Artie rolled his eyes. "Christ, who _wasn't _she married to? There was that newscaster over at channel six – they were married when I first started doing jobs for her."

"And then the zoo guy," Mickey added, smiling childishly. "I liked him – he brought home meerkats this one time, let me hold one."

"Hated the kids, though," Artie said. "Well – Caleb's always been a prince, but Jesus… Doug was a monster. Not the best gig I ever had, trailing after that family."

While they continued discussing the senator and her brood, Brennan turned her attention to Angela, who appeared to be at an impasse with her sketch.

"No luck?" she asked.

The artist shook her head in frustration. "If I had something to compare it with – like that photo of the other guy from the cleaners? But it's impossible for me to tell which features on this photo are real, and which were embellished with make-up or prosthetics. But I'll keep working on it."

Booth nodded his approval, tuning into their conversation. "Good – all right, that's a wrap for the rest of you guys. I hate to be rude, but we've got a party to go to."

Just after Washington left, Booth pulled Mickey and Artie aside.

"You think you can maybe find some other shots of this Ryan Jacobs guy?" he asked.

Artie nodded readily. "Yeah, of course. Listen, where do you want us tonight? You need someone watching Dr. Brennan at the party, or you got it covered?"

Brennan watched while Booth seemed to consider the question. "I think we've got it covered there – I'll talk to Washington's guys, and make sure I've got a body on Angela, too." He hesitated before turning to Mickey. "So, Mick, did you get a chance to tweak the alarm system here like I asked?"

Artie looked up. "What do you mean, tweak the alarm? That's like screwing with a man's masterpiece. I don't do good enough work for you all of a sudden?"

"We didn't do much," Mickey said quickly. "He just wanted me to change the code, add a couple bells and whistles to make sure the perimeter's secure."

"Yeah, Art," Booth agreed. "Don't get bent out of shape, I'm just trying to cover all the bases."

Artie reluctantly agreed that this was acceptable, but only after Mickey promised to tell him all of the changes he'd made. The two men left shortly thereafter, and then it was time to prepare for the memorial at the Llewellyn's.

The Estate was overflowing when they arrived at seven o'clock. The continuing rain kept the lawn and the front steps clear of loiterers, but the parking lot and the foyer were filled to the brim.

Angela shook her head in disbelief when they entered the ballroom. "Wow. I live with a billionaire and still… Wow. This place is gorgeous."

A jazz trio was playing in the corner, and a disturbingly large photo of Jason Farnham was posted just above the open bar.

Brennan nodded. "It's very nice – everything handmade, beautiful craftsmanship."

Booth shrugged. "I guess if you like that kind of thing, over-the-top displays and crappy music, it's not that bad."

Angela and Brennan rolled their eyes at one another.

"I told you you should have had sex with him before we got here," Angela whispered, loudly enough for Booth to overhear.

"And I told _you_," Booth said quickly, looking flustered. "To can it with the sex talk. Nobody's having sex."

Brennan quirked an eyebrow at him. "You mean at this exact moment, or ever again?"

"Ask me at the end of the night," he told her grumpily.

"See?" Angela said. "You guys are ridiculous – the tension is killing me. You've got serial killers after you and me showing up on your doorstep and… You really should have taken twenty minutes and just popped the cork. Let off a little steam, at least."

"I'm getting a drink," Booth said. "Do you want something or not?"

"Scotch," Brennan said without hesitation. "Ange?"

"Will have a nice club soda, thank you very much," Booth answered for her. "No gin for the little nipper – wait 'til he's toddling around Hodgins's place before he gets a taste for the good stuff."

Angela's eyebrows shot up, her eyes widening as she fixed an accusing glare on Brennan. "You told him!"

"I did not!" Brennan said quickly. "He knew before I did."

This, at least, seemed to cheer Booth a bit. "I figured you out, Montenegro. And it's a good thing, too – you start taking off cross-country, kidnapping potheads when you oughta know better… Somebody's gotta watch out for my godson."

Angela couldn't suppress a smile at this. "Your godson, huh?"

That's right," he said, looking very pleased with himself. "Uncle Booth here's gonna make sure this kid grows up right. Between you and Hodgins, what shot does he have otherwise?" He paused, becoming slightly more serious as he leaned over and kissed Angela's cheek. "I'm happy for you, Ange. You're gonna be a great mom."

Which, of course, made Angela tear up immediately. Before the moment could become anymore emotional, however, Jamie, Caleb, and Lethem interrupted their exchange.

"So, is this the most horrific day ever or what?" Jamie asked, as soon as she reached Brennan's side.

Caleb was holding a drink in one hand, staring vaguely into the distance until Brennan addressed him.

"Have you spoken with TJ?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, not since they took him in. I'm assuming he used that one phone call on something frivolous, like a lawyer."

"Or a pizza," Jamie said dryly, but the way she ran a hand down Caleb's arm suggested she hadn't meant the comment to be cruel.

Caleb smiled faintly. "Or that," he agreed.

Brennan gestured toward Angela, remembering social niceties with some effort. "Jamie, this is my best friend and co-worker, Angela Montenegro. Angela was the one who introduced me to your work."

Lethem looked at Booth with a nod that suggested he was impressed with what he saw. "Damn – don't you work with anyone below an eight?"

Booth didn't acknowledge the comment, though he did direct a glare at Lethem that seemed to cool the man's ardor considerably.

"I was just about to grab some drinks – anybody want anything?" he asked.

Lethem offered to go with him, which left Brennan to stand awkwardly while Angela and Jamie talked like old friends, and Caleb stared somewhat dismally at the floor.

As the night wore on, Brennan found herself feeling increasingly distanced from the crowd around her. Dr. Taylor and several of the students got up and told amusing anecdotes about Farnham's idiosyncrasies – none of which had seemed nearly so charming while the man was alive, she reflected. While Mrs. Llewellyn spoke to her about the rising crime rate in cities around the country, Brennan kept scanning the crowd – trying to determine which of the faces belonged to undercover FBI agents and which might belong to the serial killer for whom, according to Sweets at least, she had become an obsession.

At one point, she retreated to a comparatively quiet corner in the hallway, staring at an antique painting of a child on a rocking horse. She thought of Abby Martin – who was still alive, somewhere. Or, at least, she could be. Brennan had spoken with Booth about her, and he'd agreed that they would look into the case. They would search for Abby together – Brennan could help her, she felt certain of it. It wouldn't be easy, but perhaps she could help the girl pay for college, leave her past behind.

While she was reflecting on all of this in the corridor, Brennan knew that Booth was watching her, though it seemed he was trying to maintain some distance this evening. It had been a difficult day for both of them, and Brennan was certain that between her emotional display the night before and her bursts of anger throughout the day, he was undoubtedly rethinking the wisdom of them dating. She still had yet to show him the drawer she'd emptied for him, and she thought perhaps it might be better to just hold off on that until she was thinking more clearly.

She stood in the doorway, watching the people inside laugh and dance. No one seemed terribly distraught about Jason Farnham's demise – another excuse for a party, perhaps the inspiration for a bestseller, but Brennan had yet to see anyone but Dr. Taylor shed a tear. Booth was talking to Angela and Jamie and Lethem, but she saw him glance toward the door several times to ensure he knew where she was. The music seemed too loud, the air too close, and when someone brushed against her as they went into the ballroom, she actually jumped.

There were more people that spilled into the corridor, so that there was nowhere she could go to be alone – and suddenly, she realized, she didn't want to be alone. It wasn't safe alone, and it wasn't safe with people, not when there was no one to trust and the killer could be anyone. She forced herself to take a deep breath, reminding herself to remain rational. There were people she could trust - no need to be dramatic. She glanced across the room, at Booth and Lethem talking intently, Jamie and Angela and Caleb also lost in conversation. She could trust Angela. She could trust Booth.

It was that realization, really, that did it. The realization, and the crowd, and the sudden feeling that she had no control and no autonomy and no idea what would happen next. Booth was standing talking to Lethem when Brennan came over to him. Her heart was racing, she felt flushed and overstimulated, and she waited impatiently for him to finish his conversation about the coming football season, before he turned to her curiously.

"Something wrong, Bones?" he asked unable to hide his concern at the look on her face.

"Can we get some air?" she asked. Her voice sounded strange, desperate, and he nodded without hesitation.

"Sure, let's go. Excuse me, David," he nodded toward Lethem. Brennan took off across the room without even checking to make sure he was following her.

Her heart rate increased as she raced up the stairs, ignoring the tears in her eyes or the questioning glances from other partygoers or even Booth's voice, until they were halfway down a narrow corridor on the second floor, and Booth stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Bones – hey, Bones. You mind slowing down and telling me what the hell's going on?"

As soon as he saw her face, the tears now spilling over, his tone softened.

"Hey, Bones – it's all right. What's wrong?"

"I just want to be alone with you," she said, almost choking on the words. He nodded, as though this made perfect sense.

He ran the back of his hand over her cheek. "Where?" he asked simply.

She closed her eyes. Felt a surge of relief, that there would be no argument, no explanations. She continued down the corridor with Booth's hand in hers, to the last door on the left. As soon as the door was closed behind them, his lips were on hers.

"Are you okay?" he asked again – nearly gasped, really – between kisses.

She nodded, though she realized her tears were falling in earnest now.

"I don't want to talk," she said, that same desperation still clear in her voice.

She pulled his shirt from his waistband, running her hands along the firm muscles of his back, needing to feel him. He seemed to sense exactly what she needed – or maybe he needed it too, she thought, as his hand twisted in her hair, pulling just enough to send a fresh surge of desire through her. The kiss was searing, and when their lips parted she moved to his neck, biting hard enough to elicit a soft hiss of pain and pleasure – a sound she'd never heard him make before.

"Christ," he said softly, when she reached her hand down his trousers and felt him, already hard for her.

He pulled her dress up and over her head, and then his hot hands were at her back, cupping her breasts, pressing himself against her as she pushed his pants down. It took a moment of awkward struggle before he'd managed to step out of his pants, the whole while Brennan keeping a reckless pace with her hand stroking his length. Once he'd freed himself, he pulled her hand away and backed her against the wall, pinning her wrists with one hand as he pressed against her mound with the other.

Her lips found his throat and his chin and his mouth, gasping aloud when he swept her panties to the side, but it wasn't enough and she moved away long enough to frantically push them down her legs, pausing in frustration when they tangled around her ankles.

Booth laughed softly – the sound strange, almost foreign in such a heated atmosphere.

"Easy, Bones," he said, but he didn't say anything more, and he didn't slow down once her underwear had been tossed aside and there were no further encumbrances. He fisted a hand in her hair, pulling again, sending those sparks of pain and sex and desire roaring through her veins when his teeth found the soft flesh of her shoulder and sank in.

She cried out softly, and he returned to her mouth – she pressed her tongue inside, tasting beer and the salsa he'd had earlier, tasting _him, _and it felt as though it would never be enough – touching him would never be enough, she would never grow tired of this. She ran her hand hard along his cock, massaged his scrotum, and nearly came when he pressed three fingers inside her, knuckle deep.

She led him to the couch and pushed him down, straddling him the moment he was seated, and held his gaze when she sank down on him, burying him to the hilt. He closed his eyes, his head falling back against the sofa as she began riding him.

"Jesus, Bones. Temperance," he breathed, his hands spanning her waist as he pulled her down harder, and she kissed him again, deep and long and breathless, only realizing when he pulled back that her tears had returned.

He stopped moving instantly, his hand moving to her cheek. "Bones – hey, I'm sorry. Are you – "

She shook her head, cutting him off, taking his hand and placing it back at her waist. She flexed her inner muscles, massaging him until his breathing became ragged and he had no choice but respond.

"Don't stop," she whispered, shaking her head against the tears that seemed to know no end. She pressed her body into his again, and again, until he began moving once more. She was crying freely now, but she didn't want to think about that. "Please don't stop."

He nodded, his mouth finding hers. The tenderness had returned whether she wanted it or not, it seemed, and she took him in deeper, until he was hitting the tip of her cervix with every stroke and the pain was exquisite because, in that moment, everything else vanished. All thought of the killer, and Farnham, Abby Martin and the women who'd died, this new relationship with Booth and all the turmoil it seemed to elicit… It was gone. Nothing but the moment, Booth moving inside her, the pain-laced-pleasure and the beat of his heart, the feel of his skin, the way his hand felt at the small of her back guiding her home.

She clenched around him, her head falling backward, back bowed, her hands on his knees to keep her balance as the climax pulsed through her in a surge of heat and white light. Booth joined her a moment later, his hands tightening at her waist, allowing a small, strangled cry before he collapsed against her, his own rapid pulse matching her own.

Afterward, they curled up together on the antique sofa with a musty old quilt thrown over them, and Booth smoothed her hair from her flushed face.

"You okay, Bones?" he asked, when she would finally meet his eye.

The storm had passed, though – she felt calmer, stronger, all of the tension eased and the two of them safe in each other's arms. She nodded.

"I am. This is hard," she admitted, for the first time. "The case – those women who died. Abby Martin, and then Jason being killed. Me behaving the way I did with him, when he simply wanted to talk." She hesitated. "Being in love with you is difficult. Everything feels… dangerous."

She was surprised at how good it felt to voice all of this, these things she hadn't even really known were bothering her until now. Booth nodded, laying a line of kisses along her jaw.

"Tell me about it," he joked, but something in his eyes suggested he wasn't really kidding.

"It's difficult for you, too?" she asked, surprised.

He laughed. "Easy as falling off a log, and just as painful," he quipped. He got serious a moment later, once he realized she wasn't actually laughing with him.

"Yeah, Bones," he admitted. "In case you forgot, I'm the guy who had a major meltdown in your bed a couple nights ago. So… Yeah, you're not the only one who's a little undone. We'll make it, though."

She looked into his eyes, searching for a sign that he was merely being reassuring – that he didn't believe that they would, in fact, be all right. As always, though, his returning gaze was steadfast. _The center must hold,_ she thought silently. She rested her head beneath his chin, running a hand over his chest, never tiring of touching him.

"We should go," she said reluctantly.

He laughed. "Yeah, we probably should. I've got the Feds Washington sent me on Angela, but it's still not great form to just ditch our houseguest for a quick screw in the…"

He looked around, as though noticing the room for the first time. "Where the hell are we, anyway?"

"One of about a dozen parlors," she told him. The room wasn't as expansive as some of the others, but Brennan had found it earlier in the week and liked the fact that it was out of the way. The wallpaper was a deep red, with crown molding and beautiful, handmade bookcases along one wall.

She got up reluctantly and began sorting through the clothes that they'd strewn from one end of the room to the other. Booth put on his boxers and his trousers, then went and stood in front of the bookcase surveying its contents while she put her nylons back on and tried to wrangle her hair back into something presentable.

She was zipping up her dress when Booth called her over, handing a book to her.

"Check that out – what do you make of it?" he asked.

She opened it, not sure to what, exactly, he was referring. It was a worn – but very nice – copy of The Prophet, with an inscription in the front dated February 12, 1995.

_With much love and best wishes for a thriving future,  
__Dr. Philip and Mrs. Rebecca Woolrich Taylor_

Her own expression mirrored his as she closed the book. "I didn't realize they were married," she said.

Booth considered this. "Yeah – Artie didn't mention that one, huh? How long's Taylor been around these parts?" he asked.

"As far as I know, he's from Portland. Or somewhere around Oregon." She studied him. "Do you think he could be one of the killers?"

"I don't know." He scratched his chin, looking uneasy. "Here, let's get dressed. I wanna get back to Angela."

On the way back down the stairs, Brennan realized that they'd both stepped up their pace. Booth had an anxious look on his face, and she listened with mounting concern as he called one of the officers assigned as security for the night.

"You still have Angela in your sights?" he asked, his tone clipped. He didn't slow down as they continued down the hall, but Brennan could see the impact the agent's words had on him.

"What do you mean, you lost her?" he demanded. "How long ago? And why the hell didn't you call me?"

Brennan felt her stomach drop at the words, but she grabbed Booth's arm a moment later and stopped him mid-stride.

"Bones, just a second – " he said brusquely, but stopped abruptly when he followed her eye. Angela, looking slightly flushed but otherwise fine, was headed toward them at a rapid clip.

"Never mind," Booth said into the phone. "We've got her. Next time, though, you mind keeping your head out of your ass long enough to keep an eye on the people you're supposed to be protecting?"

"Okay, we have to go. I'm freaking out," Angela said as soon as she reached them, and it was quite clear from the look in her eye that this was indeed true. Before they could ask any questions, she grabbed both Booth and Brennan and dragged them toward the door.

"We have to go. Sorry, your friends are a lot of fun but…"

Booth nodded. "Yeah, we got it – we have to go. You mind telling me why?"

She swallowed, her face suddenly ashen. "Your buddy Ryan Jacobs – the guy I was trying to sketch all afternoon? Yeah, I figured out who he is."

Brennan stared at her. "Who?"

Angela looked toward the bar, at the photo of Jason Farnham that seemed to be watching the entire room.

"Jason Farnham."

* * *

In the short walk back to the car, Booth, Brennan, and Angela all managed to get soaked. The parking lot was flooded, headlights shone against the wet pavement, and everything felt cold and dark and damp. Booth called the security detail to let them know they needed to follow the Prius home, and during the ride it seemed everyone was talking at once.

"So, does that mean Farnham was the one who killed all those women?" Brennan wanted to know.

Of course, no one had any answer to that.

"Are you positive?" Booth kept asking, until Angela finally reached out from the backseat and hit him in the back of the head.

"Seriously – don't ask me that again. Yes, I'm positive. If I wasn't positive, I would've said something like, 'Gee, it's possible that that guy Jason Farnham might've looked like Ryan Jacobs.' Did you hear me say that?" she demanded.

"She definitely didn't say that," Brennan supplied helpfully.

When they got back to the house, Booth made them wait inside the car with the doors locked while he went inside and searched everything – despite the fact that Mickey had changed all of the security codes and added a new feature to alert them to anyone's presence along the perimeter of the property. Even so, Brennan found herself holding her breath while she waited for the downstairs light to come on, an indication that Booth was fine and all was safe.

Finally, after the most interminable five minutes of her life, the light came on. Angela started to get out of the car, but Brennan quickly grabbed her wrist.

"We have to wait for him to come for us. Those are the rules."

Angela nodded, looking slightly unnerved as she quickly closed the door and relocked it.

"Right. Sure." She took a shaky breath. "We wait."

Another two minutes passed, before Booth came back to the car and opened Brennan's door.

"Safe as houses," he said. "Come on in."

Once they were safely inside, the trio gathered in the kitchen for a snack and continued to talk. Everyone at the Jeffersonian had, of course, long since retired for the night. Booth called and left a message for Washington and another for Artie, neither of whom picked up, and only succeeded in getting through to Mickey, who was apparently quite upset at the news that Brennan had been working alongside the Lady Killer for an entire week. When he hung up, they lingered in the kitchen for only a few minutes longer before Angela excused herself to go to bed.

And then there were two. They did the dishes together, Brennan falling silent as she considered the ramifications of their discovery. Someone else was out there – clearly, since someone had killed Farnham. She just couldn't seem to imagine who that someone else was.

At midnight, the dishes were done. Booth checked all of the windows and doors once more, reset the alarm, called into the security detail, and followed Brennan up the stairs to the bedroom. They got into bed, and Booth had just tossed his boxers on the floor and was laying kisses up her thigh when she remembered the empty drawer.

"I have a surprise for you," she said, her voice breaking slightly when he blew cool air across her core.

"Oh yeah?" he asked, his hand joining his skilled mouth until she arched into his touch.

"Yes," she said. "The – " his tongue circled her sensitized clitoris, his fingers plunged her depths, and she gasped. "The bureau," she tried again.

He stopped touching her long enough to look up, quirking an eyebrow at her as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you saying, Bones? 'Cause I'm a little busy here."

She wet her lips, pulling him up so that he was beside her. "The bureau," she finally managed. "I… I cleaned out a drawer. In case you wanted to put your things there."

He grinned at her. "Yeah? Are you sure?"

She hesitated. "It doesn't mean anything," she said, suddenly feeling the need to clarify. "I mean… I've never given anyone a drawer before, but there's no symbolism. I don't believe in symbolism," she added.

But regardless of what she said, he was still grinning. "Yeah, Bones, sure. I know it's not a symbol. It's just a drawer, right?"

He kissed her, and she kissed him, and the world spun and heated and burst, until she was lying beside him once more and they were breathless and quiet in the dark. Her eyes were heavy, and despite everything that was uncertain and terrifying, these moments with Booth felt... right. _This _was right.

"Love you, Booth," she said, her arms around his middle and her head on his chest.

He kissed the top of her head, his hand at her back. "Love you, Bones. G'night."

* * *

When she woke later, it was still dark. The rain was still coming down in sheets outside, beating against the windowpanes in an endless rhythm. Booth snored beside her, and she lay there for a few moments before she realized she wouldn't be able to sleep again. Jason Farnham was still in her head, along with Abby and TJ and all of the other hapless souls caught in this seemingly unsolvable puzzle.

She glanced at the clock. It was three a.m. – they needed to be up in three hours to take Angela to the airport. She was getting quite skilled at getting up without disturbing Booth, she realized; tonight was no exception. She put on her pajamas and silently slipped out the door.

The house was dark. Silent – as it would naturally be at this hour, she reminded herself. She went to the kitchen to make some tea, reviewing the events of the day as she poured the water, put a deep green mug into the microwave and hit 'Beverage,' selected a teabag. Ten days in Oregon, a week in Maine… She missed D.C., suddenly. She missed her apartment, her own bed, a closet neatly arranged and familiar haunts at the end of long work days.

If Farnham was Ryan Jacobs, did that mean the case was almost solved? The microwave pinged, and she removed the hot mug – nearly burning herself in the process. She gasped as the scalding liquid spilled over the top and hit her wrist, and quickly set it down on the counter. Then stopped moving – her head tilted slightly, straining her ears. Had she heard something? The door was locked, the security alarm was set. She picked up the hot mug again, holding it by the handle, wielding it like a weapon.

She turned around, her heart hammering. She'd turned on only the light over the oven, disliking the harsh glare of overhead lights this late, but now the shadows seemed longer and the darkness that much darker. Her gun was upstairs. Booth was upstairs. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. She wasn't even certain she'd heard anything, after all. She focused on breathing: five deep breaths to change the chemistry of the brain – she'd learned that in a meditation class years ago.

She did exactly that, standing perfectly still while she waited for her heart to slow. The living room was dark, the light switch all the way over by the stairs. If she ran, she thought… If she ran, she would be a fool. She swallowed. Set down her tea. The deep breathing hadn't helped – her heart was still hammering too fast. If she ran, she might be safe.

How far was it across the room? Instead of running, she walked. Took a step into the darkness, and she knew in that instant that it had been exactly the wrong thing to do – that coming downstairs had been exactly the wrong thing. She heard the creak of a floorboard behind her, whirled with her right leg already kicking out blindly and her hands up to protect her head, but the blow came from the right. The scream died in her throat before it ever hit the night air, the pain in her head shutting out all conscious thought as strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders and the world went dark.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Bones was gone when Booth rolled over at just after three that morning – not that it should have been a surprise. In fact, it was starting to be pretty much status quo around the place; they'd fall asleep wrapped up in each other, he'd wake up cold, buck naked and alone, long before sunrise.

And yeah, he knew the house was secure – he'd changed the alarm code himself, checked every window, every door (twice), talked to the cops keeping watch outside before he and Bones turned in. They were safe – he just had to keep telling himself that. But even knowing all that, he lay in bed for a good two minutes trying to convince himself that getting up was a bad idea. He knew Temperance was on edge. Him chasing after her all the time, watching her like a hawk, wasn't helping – he just wished there was some way to convince her to get the hell back to D.C., forget this whole goddamn case.

Booth wasn't one to question his instincts, but lately – lately, he found he couldn't tell the difference between instinct and plain old terror. He was too close to this, and he knew it – couldn't see the forest for the trees, and every time Bones was out of his sight, he felt positive it was the last time he'd ever see her again. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand – ten past three. Bones's side of the bed was still warm. It was still raining outside, the room cold and dark and silent. There was a tree just outside the balcony doors, its shadow making crazy, long-limbed shapes on the ceiling, and Booth lay there for another thirty seconds before he was on his feet.

He pulled on his sweatpants, telling himself that he was being an idiot. He would step outside the door, hurry down the hall and down the stairs, and Temperance would be sitting on the couch with that look on her face. That look that said pretty clearly, _Could you be more paranoid? _

He didn't feel paranoid, though.

His gun was on the nightstand. He picked it up, feeling slightly better with the weight in his hand. There was a soft thud downstairs that made him move faster, and then a louder thud and the sound of something breaking, and it only took that split second before adrenaline was crashing through his veins. He burst through the door and sought the cover of the wall as he raced for the stairs.

"Bones?" he said, keeping his voice low.

No answer. His eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to give him a rough picture of the world around him – photos on the wall, the bathroom door standing closed, Angela's bedroom door on the other end of the hall, also closed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that door open – he turned, calling over his shoulder.

"Get back inside and lock the door."

By the time he realized that the person standing there wasn't Angela, it was too late.

Anyone with any longevity as a sharpshooter develops a sixth sense for when someone's got a bead on him – Booth was headed for the stairs with just a few feet to go, when he saw the figure that wasn't Angela take aim in his periphery. Before he could make a move one way or the other, something sharp bit into the muscle of his shoulder. Not a bullet – more like a dart, and he knew what that meant and he knew what was happening and he knew that this was the nightmare he wouldn't wake up from. This nightmare would only get worse.

He ordered his feet to keep moving, no longer worried about taking cover. He just needed to get downstairs – one foot in front of the other, more sounds of crashing coming from downstairs, followed by a woman's scream. Bones or Angela, he couldn't tell which. He turned, took aim at the figure that was now moving toward him, but right was suddenly left and in front seemed behind and the shot only kicked up some plaster on the wall, nothing more.

A second dart hit him in the thigh, but he didn't even pause this time. One foot in front of the other, the stairs in front of him now, and he was halfway down the steps with his vision blurring and the world slowing to a crawl, when he saw Bones. She was on the ground, not moving, a man in black standing over her. Halfway down the steps, gun already cocked, and Booth raised his arm to take aim thinking that, of all the shots he'd taken in his lifetime, this was the most important. This single shot, with the night closing in around him and his heart beating in his throat, in his ears, drowning out every other sound – if he never made another shot in his life, it would be worth it, just to end this here and now.

He'd fixed on the target when he heard footsteps on the stairs behind him, fast, and before he could take the shot, something hit the back of his head like a steel mallet. He fell to his knees. Skidded down two steps before falling the rest of the way, still clinging to his gun, still clawing toward that fragment of daylight that said he could do this, he was Seeley Booth for Christ's sake. _Get up, get up, get up. _

At the bottom of the stairs, he got to his knees. Leveled the gun. Bones was in the other man's arms – limp, no sign of life, and he blinked past the roaring in his ears and the blurred edges that made a clean shot impossible, and he knew suddenly that it was all just a game to them… There was laughter behind him, cruel but somehow familiar, and he knew they were fucking with him – there was no way he'd make that shot. He turned his head, looking for a glimpse of the man that had been playing with them since they'd gotten to Oregon, but all he saw was night.

He was hit by a second blow to the head, this one to his temple, and he fell sideways.

This time, he didn't get up.

* * *

Brennan was lost. Too hot, her head on fire, and she dreamed the trunk before she knew the reality, and when she woke and _that _was the reality, every accomplishment she'd ever had, every rational decision she'd ever made, was forgotten. The rain came down, the air was too close, she could smell the exhaust and in that moment, Brennan was sixteen again. Clumsy, so clumsy – how could she be so clumsy? A dish had broken – tonight, she reminded herself, not sixteen years ago. Tonight, she'd broken a green coffee mug and some part of her appreciated the irony, that, yes, here she was sixteen years later and it appeared the punishment was still the same.

Break a dish, locked away until you knew better.

She knew better.

There were ways to get out of a locked trunk – she'd researched them, in fact. After that night, after the punishment that she still believed did not fit the crime, no matter how many warnings she'd gotten… After that night sixteen years ago, she'd learned every way imaginable to get out of a locked trunk. She took a breath, closed her eyes against the darkness, and focused.

There were ways.

It was still raining outside – she could hear the drops falling, and imagined how much cooler it would be out there. Her head hurt a great deal. She'd been shot with what she suspected was a tranquilizer of some kind, based on how readily she'd lost consciousness during the fight with her attacker. He'd struck a blow, as well – to her right side, just behind her ear, and when she lifted her head she knew she was bleeding because her hair was matted, strands of it stuck to the trunk floor. But after that blow, there had been a needle stick in her neck – that was what dropped her, after a pathetic struggle and then, somewhere underwater, she'd heard Booth call her name.

He'd been right.

It should aggravate her, she realized – she hated it when he was right. He would say, _See, Bones, I _told _you – that'll teach you to ignore me. _But he would smile when he said it – or perhaps he would gloat, perhaps he would be angry first… But then, after all of it, he would smile. Which would ultimately make it okay that he was right about this; it wouldn't matter, as long as she was alive to see him give her that 'I-told-you-so' look one more time.

There were ways to get out of a locked trunk.

It was not a large trunk – which meant she had limited space in which to move. There was also the issue of being bound, both wrists and ankles. There was the issue of the tape over her mouth, which made hyperventilation that much more likely. And if she vomited – as she felt was entirely likely given the head injury, the sedative, the adrenaline surge – then she would asphyxiate.

Stay calm.

After 2002, all American cars were built with a glow-in-the-dark release on the interior of the trunk – Brennan had actually lobbied for this modification, though she naturally had never explained why.

It was impossible to tell how old this particular car was from her vantage point, but she saw no such release.

She could get through by kicking out the backseat – but only if the car was unoccupied. It was unlikely that her assailant would be amenable to that particular method of escape.

She moved her hands behind her, trying to determine just how securely she was bound. Booth told her once that if she was ever tied, she should hope that her captor was neither a sailor nor a policeman.

_You can get out of any knot, Bones, except a sailor's knots. And handcuffs… Forget it. Otherwise, though – you shimmy and you twist long enough, and you're gonna get out. Trust me, I've done it a million times. _

There was no way for her to know if the man who'd bound her was a sailor, but it was definitely rope and not handcuffs. She tried maneuvering her hands so she could grab hold of the knot, but found it impossible. If she could use her teeth, however… She curled into the fetal position, tucking her knees as close to her chin as possible, and brought her arms beneath her. Thank god for yoga.

Her head ached more, her shoulders burned from the awkward positioning, and she paused for just a moment as a wave of nausea hit. Closed her eyes, willing her way past it by breathing through her nose and counting slowly to herself.

_One steamboat, two steamboats… _

She opened her eyes, and kept stretching until, finally, she'd gotten her hands past her feet and her arms were now in front of her body.

She was getting warmer, breathing becoming more difficult, but with her hands more accessible, she was able to tear the duct tape from her mouth.

For a moment, she allowed herself to just lie still. Breathe in the exhaust choked air, letting her lungs recover before she began working on the ropes.

Sully taught her about sailor's knots. How to tie them, how to untie them. These were not sailor's knots, however. These were a bizarre, nonsensical series of loops and knots and over-and-under figure eights that looked like nothing any professional could have done. Using her teeth and the limited range of motion available to her hands, she managed to extricate herself from the entire mess in a matter of minutes.

The car continued on, navigating her to some nameless lair where a monster was waiting.

There were ways to get out of a locked trunk.

* * *

It was daylight when Booth woke again – not full daylight because it was too gray for full daylight, and with the rain and the gray God only knew what time it actually was. His stomach was heaving and his head pounding, his arms and legs too heavy to lift, and there was a second there when he had no idea where he was or what had happened. One beautiful second when life could've gone either way – he'd gotten the flu or maybe tied one on with a vengeance, and all it would take was a couple hours before he'd be back to his old self. Bones would tell him he was pathetic, but she'd still take pity and maybe even make him some chicken soup, if he played the sympathy card hard enough.

He knew it was a fantasy before the thought was even formed, though. His eyes focused on the rug in front of him – the lamp knocked to the floor, the coffee mug broken and the stain from Bones's tea soaked a pale brown into the gray carpet. It hit him fast from there – he rolled over and threw up, kneeling for a few seconds before he staggered to his feet.

His gun was still where he'd dropped it.

"Angela!" he shouted, remembering that the man had come from her room.

There was no answer.

The room was spinning a little more than he could comfortably stand, his stomach still lurching, but he made it upstairs anyway. Dove into the bathroom just as another wave of nausea hit, and managed to make it to the toilet this time before he was sick again. Straightened back up feeling a little more clear, and grabbed his phone and dialed Artie before he headed for Angela's room.

Artie didn't pick up the phone.

He had his gun drawn when he opened Angela's door, but the room was empty – blankets thrown off the bed, but otherwise nothing. No sign of a struggle, forced entry, blood. How the hell had they gotten in? He'd changed the security code himself – after Mickey, in fact, so that the only ones who knew were him, Bones, and Angela.

He tried Artie again, fighting to stay rational. Clearheaded. He had to think.

The house was silent. Outside, the rain just kept coming; he tried to retrace what had happened the night before. He'd come down at ten past three, he remembered looking at the alarm clock first. Now, he checked the clock on the wall of the guest room, wondering if it was right.

Six-thirty.

They'd had Bones and Angela for over three hours.

Why the hell had they taken Angela?

Washington picked up on the first ring, unlike Artie – who had yet to answer.

"Washington," he answered – on edge, no sleep in his voice, and Booth wondered how long the man could keep this up before he fell apart completely.

And whether Booth would join him, when all was said and done.

"They got Bones and Angela. Where the fuck are your men?"

He was on his way out of the bedroom when he heard something – a knock on the wall, then silence. A second's pause, before another muffled knock.

"What do you mean, they got them?" Washington asked.

The closet door was closed – he thought of the night before, the sight of Bones in the man's arms, the other man coming out of Angela's room. He'd been alone. Booth went to the closet, gun drawn, even though he was pretty sure he knew what he'd find.

"Booth, what do you mean, they got them?" Washington asked again.

"I have to call you back," Booth told him, and snapped the phone shut.

Angela was sitting on the closet floor, hands tied behind her back, duct tape over her mouth. Crying, her eyes wide – this was the world he and Bones knew, but he reminded himself that Angela didn't have a fucking clue about any of it. What it was like, the difference between a close call and just another day on the job.

He removed the tape as gently as he could, let her collapse against him while he untied her and she cried, stopping just shy of hyperventilating.

"Ange, it's all right," he tried soothing her, but his head was already sixteen steps ahead – people he needed to call, things he needed to figure out, everything he needed to set in motion. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. "No – they stuck me with a needle or something, and I passed out. I woke up here – he got Brennan, didn't he?" she asked, the tears slowing once she was on her feet and knew she was actually safe.

He nodded. Ran his hands over his forehead and came away with dried blood – she seemed to notice it about the same time he did.

"Oh my god, Booth – you're hurt."

"I'm fine," he said shortly.

She shook her head, and it seemed like her tears were all but forgotten after that. "No, sweetie, you're not – you're bleeding. Come on."

He let her lead him to the bathroom, dialing Mickey next. Like Washington, the man answered immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"They got her," Booth said, his voice coming out more… broken, somehow, than he'd meant it to. "Where the fuck's Artie – he's not answering."

"He should be home," Mickey told him, clearly shaken up. "Did you try the landline? What do you mean, they got her? Is she wearing the tracker?"

Booth caught his breath at the question.

There was no way, was there? No way she'd get up in the middle of the night, go downstairs for a cup of tea in their locked house, and still think to put the tracker in.

_Please, God. _

He went to the medicine cabinet. Angela was watching him through all this, looking more terrified than ever when he started ransacking the bathroom sink. Bones usually set the tracker on the shelf below the medicine cabinet before bed – he'd retrieved it from just that spot about a dozen times since getting here and chased after her with it.

_If I'm not in the room with you, you put the goddamn tracker in. Even if I am in the room with you, please – just wear the fuckin' thing. You paid for it, you might as well use it. _

It wasn't there.

"What are you looking for?" Angela asked, like he'd lost his mind.

"A little – " he gestured toward his ear. "Like an earbud, only a lot smaller – "

"The transmitter?" she asked.

He nodded. "It's usually right here. It's not here – do you know where it is?"

She shook her head, but she had that same hopeful look in her eyes that he imagined he had.

"You think she has it?" she asked.

"Booth, you still there?" Mickey asked.

"Yeah – I'm here, Mick. Listen, I've gotta go. If you get in touch with Artie before I do, let him know we need to fire up the GPS."

"I'll let him know," Mickey said. There was a pause, before he added, "Booth – I'm praying for her, okay? She's good people."

Booth blinked back tears, trying to keep a handle on everything with Angela still watching him and the walls closing in and Bones out there, somewhere, with those bastards.

"Yeah, Mick, she is. Thanks," he said roughly, and hung up.

As soon as he was off the line, Angela took his cell from him and motioned toward the toilet.

"Sit – I'm gonna fix your head. Can I make a call?"

"Angela, I need to get in touch with – "

"Everyone," she nodded, eerily calm. "Yeah, I know. But you're bleeding like a stuck pig, and I'd like to call my boyfriend. So sit the fuck down and let me take care of you for five seconds."

It was the same tone his mom used to use on him and Jared – though his mom never actually used the f-word on him. Still, it was a tone he'd learned to listen to a long time ago. He sat down obediently. Angela got cotton and peroxide from the medicine cabinet, and if it hadn't been for how bad her hands were shaking while she was on the phone, Booth wouldn't have had any idea about what had just happened and exactly how much it was affecting her.

"They got Brennan," she said when Hodgins answered the phone, without saying hi or anything else. He expected her to burst into tears, but instead she took a deep breath. Looked at Booth, and seemed to straighten up.

"Will you come, Jack?" her voice broke. "Just… Please come."

Hodgins said something back and Booth imagined that it was the right thing, it was the sort of reason he liked the guy, and Angela smiled through her tears and nodded.

"Thank you. I'll see you soon."

She hung up, and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand before she came over and attacked Booth with peroxide and cotton balls. He took the phone and tried Artie's landline. Six rings this time, but finally the man answered.

"What?" he asked, obviously annoyed at being woken.

"I need you to activate the tracker. Get me a location."

"They got her?" he asked, coming to attention suddenly. "How the fuck – "

"Just do it, Artie," Booth cut him off. "I don't care how they did it, I don't even care who right now. All I care about is getting her back."

"Right – yeah, you're right. I'll get the signal triangulated, I can have a location for you in twenty minutes."

* * *

They turned down an unpaved road where the sound of passing cars was intermittent at best. Brennan was tossed from one side of the trunk to the other, fighting panic because she assumed they must be getting closer to their destination. She touched her ear, thinking gratefully of her decision early that morning to put the transmitter in after she'd left Booth's side. It wasn't that she thought she was in any danger at the time, really – she'd just grown so tired of fighting with him over the damned thing, that wearing it was simply easier.

And so he'd been right again, it seemed.

However, she couldn't count on Booth being able to find her in time. Having spent the last two weeks becoming intimately acquainted with the killer's methods – specifically, how long the victims survived and what they went through before they died – Brennan knew the only way to ensure her safety was to get away now.

Which brought her back to the locked trunk.

In certain models of vehicles, she would have access to the brake lights through the back of the car – it seemed that this, however, was not one of those models. There was nothing in the trunk she could use as a weapon, and nothing with which she could try to pry open the lock. Her heart sped up when they came to a stop, and the driver turned off the car engine.

His door opened, and closed. She positioned herself feet first so that she could kick the trunk open the instant it was unlocked, but a moment later there was the sound of another car door opening, followed by an engine starting. The second car drove away.

Then, there was nothing.

She was alone.

Time passed, but she had no idea how much time. She tried kicking out the back seat, but was met with an obstruction – whoever had taken her had apparently thought ahead, reinforcing the seat with some type of heavy plywood. She kicked harder, screaming her frustration, kicked again and again until her breath was coming in strangled gasps, tears starting.

She'd been here before.

Be still.

Be smart.

Stop crying, take deep breaths.

She had the transmitter, she was relatively uninjured, she was no longer bound. He would let her out of the trunk eventually. When that time came, she would be ready.

Think of something else.

There were 117 elements in the periodic table, and she could name all of them. Two hundred and six bones in the human body, all of which she could also name. Eighty-six thousand, four hundred seconds in a single twenty-four hour day, and she had survived many such days in her lifetime.

She could survive this.

She thought of Booth.

She would like to go to Rome with him. She'd been before – a few times, actually, but it would be different to see the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, the Basilicas and catacombs, through his eyes. When she had visited in the past, she'd been awed by the history, if somewhat disdainful of the ardor with which believers approached the experience. It would be different, with Booth. She wouldn't believe anymore than she ever had, but for some reason it gave her comfort to know that he did. As though his faith was enough for both of them.

She would like to take her father somewhere, as well – she imagined going to the Galapagos Islands with him. He would love it, be endlessly fascinated – exuberant, even. She would like to rent a cabin with Russ and Amy and the girls, return to Maine, see her father find someone again… She paused at the thought, wondering if that was actually possible.

She thought of the way he used to look at her mother, and knew, suddenly, that it would never be like that again. He might find someone for companionship, a comforting presence when things got lonely (did Max get lonely, she wondered?), but the way he used to look at her mother surely couldn't be replicated. The laughter, the fights, the way they used to dance and kiss and touch… Russ had always been horrified at their displays, but Temperance was spellbound. Mystified. No one else was like that, no one else's father brought home flowers, jewelry, books of sonnets, beautiful dresses.

Of course, Brennan assumed no one else's parents were wanted fugitives living under assumed identities with the threat of being discovered looming forever on the horizon.

She would like to get a dog. Be there when Angela had her baby. Make love to Booth again, at least once. Or twice. A hundred times seemed greedy, but she wasn't above hoping for the opportunity. Plant a garden. Go back to Egypt, but stay longer this time. Bring Booth with her – perhaps Parker, if Rebecca would let him come. He would be fascinated with the pyramids, even if his father was not.

Outside, the rain continued to fall against the car. She was growing sleepy – one could survive inside a trunk for at least twelve hours without fear of oxygen deprivation, though she'd survived longer as a teenager. That had been a bigger trunk, though, and she believed they must have made some type of modification to aid with ventilation. She hadn't been the first child in the family to break a dish, after all.

After what must have been at least an hour, she heard a car drive up beside them. She waited until the driver got out, knowing that in all likelihood it was merely the killer returning. But if it wasn't…

"Help!" she shouted, pounding against the sides of the trunk. She kicked the hood, hard, and the shock of her bare feet against the metal went straight to her aching head.

"Please – there's someone in here!" she screamed it, knowing that if it was in fact the killer, she was now letting him know she was no longer gagged.

A moment passed, without a sound outside.

And then, a hollow thump against the trunk hood – as though someone had slapped the metal.

"Hello in there?" a man called to her.

A familiar voice, but she couldn't place it through the rain and the fear and the sheet of iron walling her off from the world.

"Please – you have to let me out. I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan," she started. Knowing, even as she said it, that her attempt was pointless. It was him.

Laughter, on the other side. "You do have spirit, Temperance. Just sit tight – we're almost home."

He got into the car, started the engine. They drove on.

* * *

"What do you mean, it's not working?" Booth demanded, an all-too-familiar sense of helplessness washing over him. "What the fuck did she spend three grand on, if it's not gonna work when she needs it? Didn't you test it?"

He was on the phone with Artie for the third time that morning. The twenty minutes it was supposed to take to get the transmitter working had turned into more than two hours they'd lost, waiting for this thing. Washington had just arrived, looking like a ghost.

"I did test it," Artie insisted. "You were there when we did the fuckin' test runs, remember? It's just… It's not that it's not working, exactly – "

"Then what exactly is it?" he practically screamed, pacing the kitchen floor.

"Just give me another few minutes, okay? I'll figure it out."

Angela was taking a shower. The cops were there, the living room sealed off and someone cutting holes in the carpet around bloodstains and tea stains and whatever else had been left in the past twelve hours. One of the Portland squints was taking a sample of the spot where Booth had booted by the stairs.

"I told you – that's mine, goddamn it. You don't need that," Booth told the kid impatiently. He was maybe twenty-two, glasses and red hair, and he gave Booth that squint look that he'd always hated.

"I have to take samples of everything," he said, condescending as hell. "If you want us to find – "

"You think I don't want you doing everything you can to make this happen?" He took a step toward the kid, who looked terrified. Washington stepped between them.

"Let's get some air," Washington told him, taking his elbow.

He shook his head, ready to explode. These were the things he could do: he could shoot, he could throw, he could run, he could skate. He could box, fish, golf, fuck… He could _do _– that was what Booth was best at. Making things happen. Getting out there, finding the bad guys, solving the case. But standing here while they took samples of his own puke while the woman of his dreams was having God knew what done to her…

This was gonna fuckin' kill him.

He went outside with Washington, who lit a cigarette – tilting the pack toward Booth, a silent question. Booth just shook his head even though, yeah, once upon a time he'd been a smoker and a little nicotine right now sounded pretty good. But Bones would kick his ass when she got back, if she found out he'd started that shit again.

No cigarettes.

He glanced at his watch, and tried to stop himself from doing the math. Five 'til nine – they'd had her for six hours.

"So, this guy Farnham – you're telling me he was in on this? He was the one who sent the notes?" Washington asked, and Booth could tell he was still kind of turning the idea over in his head.

"I don't know who the hell he was," Booth admitted. "We just got another picture, of this janitor who used to clean the offices of at least three of the vics - Angela confirmed that guy was him, too. That places him with four of the victims, for starters."

"But there were two men here last night," Washington said. "How many fucking killers are involved in this thing?"

Booth shrugged. Rubbed his head. He'd been asking himself the same question.

"You mind answering a question for me?" he asked Washington, standing out in the rain with his hands in his pockets, not even caring that he was getting soaked. He barely noticed, as a matter of fact.

Washington took a drag from his cigarette, nodded his head.

"What's that?"

Booth studied him for a second or two, keeping his voice level when he asked the question. "What the fuck happened to all the security that was supposed to be on us last night? Because I thought we were pretty clear on all of it – three guys on the house at all times. I talked to one of 'em last night at midnight – Mitch. They were all set to dig in 'til morning."

Washington nodded. He still looked distracted, kind of haunted, paying no more attention to the rain than Booth was. Booth wondered if maybe this was what happened – you lost the love of your life, and suddenly the weather just wasn't much of a concern anymore.

"I'm still trying to figure that out," he said.

Booth nodded. Swallowed hard. "And why's that again?" he asked. "What's their story – there can't be all that fucking much to figure out, right?" the tension spilled into his voice now, and Washington just shook his head. Wouldn't look at him when he spoke.

"Last night somebody called in a double murder in Deschutes National Park, down toward Crescent. They pulled my guys to check it out."

"And they didn't clear it with you first?" Booth demanded, taking a step closer.

Washington kind of laughed, though there wasn't a hell of a lot of humor in his eyes. "You're the kind of guy that people clear shit with – not me. They needed agents, those were the ones they chose."

"And this double murder – you think it has anything to do with this?" Booth asked.

The other agent looked grim. "I'd bank on it. There was no murder – no sign of the guy who called it in, no sign of a crime scene."

It occurred to Booth, not for the first time, that none of this would be happening if Washington hadn't dragged Bones out here with a lie, dangling her in front of the killers just to serve his own agenda. He took a step toward the agent, not sure what he was going to do, but pretty sure it would be better than nothing. Washington leaned back against the house, his eyes on the ground; he didn't look like he was likely to defend himself, but Booth was way past caring.

Before he could do anything, though, Angela came out. She was wearing jeans and one of Bones's sweaters, her hair still wet. She seemed to take in what was happening without a lot of effort.

"Angela, go inside. It's cold out here," he told her, keeping his eyes on Washington the whole time.

"Come in with me, then," she said. No bullshit, the same voice she'd used that morning.

"I'll be in in a second," he told her.

He looked over his shoulder, met her eyes. He thought of Bones and the things she said, the way she said them. What would she do now? He almost smiled at the thought – hell, she would've beaten Washington to a pulp days ago, if it wasn't for him. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Crying sounded pretty good, though.

He took another breath, nodded toward the car. His head was buzzing, his hands shaking. Physical violence wouldn't be the worst thing, right now.

"I'm going for a drive. I'll be back in half an hour – you'll call if you hear anything?"

Angela started to argue, but stopped when she saw the look in his eye. "Can I come with you?" she asked.

He hesitated, but not for long. She was pale, looked tired and wasted by this whole thing – what she needed was to be back home in D.C. But the least he could do was keep her safe until that happened. He'd failed Bones, but he'd be damned if he let anybody else get hurt on his watch.

"Yeah," he nodded. Turned to Washington. "I've got my cell – that's what she'd call, anyway. But if you hear anything," he raised his eyebrows, felt that rage again and knew it wouldn't be long before he lost control – and God help whoever was in the way when that happened.

"You call me – my number's the first one you dial," he said.

Washington nodded. "The very first one," he agreed.

Mickey called while they were on the way to Artie's place. Booth had been busy with Washington and the cops at the house all morning, which meant he couldn't just go out and start busting heads on his own. Still, there was no way he wasn't gonna follow every lead he had to get things wrapped up and get Bones back where she belonged. The first thing he had Mickey on was tracking down Dr. Taylor.

The way Booth figured it, the one thing they knew for sure was that Farnham was somehow involved in this whole thing. And as far as he knew, the only person who thought Farnham was anything but a useless loser was Philip Taylor. The same Philip Taylor who was married to Senator Woolrich, which meant there was a link between him and Michelle Lowell, Rachel Martin, and Cass Stryder – and that was just for starters.

Booth felt like an idiot for not seeing the connection sooner.

He answered Mickey's call on the run, shifting lanes like a madman, Angela white knuckling it silently on the passenger side.

"What've you got for me?" he demanded

There was a pause on the line. "Dr. Taylor left the party just before midnight last night," Mickey said. "He's home, Booth – I just talked to the guy. His wife says he's been home all morning."

One time as a kid, Booth had been giving Jared a hard time about something and the kid finally had enough. He got out his Louisville Slugger, waited 'til Booth wasn't paying attention, and hit his big brother just as hard as he could in the gut with that goddamn bat. Booth knew he'd been hit harder and hurt worse than that one time in fifth grade, but he'd never forget the way his head swam and his body clenched, the way the gravel felt in his knees when he dropped.

This whole morning was starting to feel like an extended version of that split second almost thirty years ago.

"You're sure he's telling the truth?" Booth finally managed, trying to figure out where the hell he was gonna go from here.

"I can't say for sure, but… Yeah, Booth, I'm pretty sure. The guy definitely doesn't look like he's got Dr. Brennan tied up in his basement somewhere – I mean, they were just sitting there watching TV when I got there."

Another pause. Mickey cleared his throat, which meant he had something to say that he wasn't sure Booth was gonna like.

"I know you're the one in charge here, Seel, but after I got back from Phil Taylor's place, I did a little checking on my own. You know that guy TJ?"

"He's still in jail," Booth said, stopping just short of holding his breath while he waited for Mickey to prove him wrong.

"That's what everybody thought, 'cause he hasn't been around – but somebody bailed him out yesterday afternoon."

Booth felt his pulse kick up a pace, if that was even possible. "Any idea where he's been since then?"

Another pause. "I talked to Caleb – nobody's seen him."

Booth rubbed the back of his neck, aware that Angela was watching him. "You didn't happen to check on Doug Murray while you were out ignoring orders too, did you?"

"You know it's not like that, Seel," Mickey started to argue.

Booth shook his head. "Yeah, Mickey, I know – listen, I'm grateful. Trust me. Did you get anything on Doug?"

"Yeah," Mickey finally answered. "He was in surgery 'til late, Seel. Listen, maybe you should let the cops handle this."

"Yeah, Mick," Booth agreed, his foot still heavy on the accelerator. "Maybe I should."

"You still on your way to Artie's?" the other man asked.

Booth nodded. "Yeah. I need to figure out the tracker – once we get that going, everything's gonna be fine. As soon as I know where she is, this whole nightmare's just gonna go away."

"You'll do it, Booth," Mickey said. "I've got faith. We'll all be laughing about this one day – you just wait."

It was almost ten – Bones had been gone seven hours. By hour seven in the other cases, the women had already been severely beaten. Raped. Degraded, in ways he couldn't even think about. He nodded in response to Mickey's words. Thought he might be sick again.

"I've gotta go," he said quickly, still fighting to keep his voice even. "I'll tell you when I've got anything. You'll keep checking on TJ, figure out where he is?"

"Of course, Seel. I'll talk to you later."

Booth hung up. He felt Angela take his hand, but he didn't look at her when she squeezed his fingers – feeling suddenly like that was the only thing keeping him on solid ground.

He tried to picture the people who were doing this. What they were thinking, how they'd gotten away with everything they had so far. What Bones was seeing, thinking. Whether she was hurt. All the things he'd say, the second she was in his arms again.

And thinking, like a recording on an endless loop in his head,

_Who is it, who is it, who is it?_

* * *

Brennan had no idea how long they'd been driving over increasingly rugged terrain. The fumes from the exhaust made her already aching head that much worse, increasing the nausea until she finally did end up being sick, despite her best efforts not to be. She chose a corner as far from her personal space as possible, the way an animal would when held captive in close quarters.

There were many stories she would never tell – she and Booth shared that, she believed. It was one of the things that resonated with her about him, the knowledge that he would never push for details she couldn't give. This, she thought, would be one of those stories.

They continued on, but she wouldn't allow herself the luxury of sleep – too terrified that when she awoke, she would have given up her one chance of escape. All she had was that single moment when he unlocked the trunk – one moment when she was unbound, when he wouldn't be expecting her to make a move.

She thought of the things he'd done to the other women. If Farnham was the madman, this would be the scientist. She preferred the madman, she realized – someone who might be more easily manipulated, someone so lost in rage that his emotions might be used against him to gain the upper hand.

Though she was a scientist herself, she had no idea how to reason with someone for whom torture and killing were a way of life, a source of pleasure. She valued logic above all else (or at least she had, she realized, until she met Booth), but there seemed nothing logical about the life this man had created for himself.

They turned down another road, traveled up a steep, rocky incline.

And stopped.

She was sweating profusely, the air in the trunk a fetid combination of fear and perspiration, exhaust and sickness. Her hair was tangled, one side matted with blood; her head throbbed, and every nerve in her body sang for release from this prison, this nightmare.

The car door opened. The car door closed.

A key was fitted into the trunk lock.

She closed her eyes. Positioned herself so that she could get the maximum leverage in order to kick open the trunk, her bare feet resting on the cool steel, her back flat against the trunk floor. There was a pop – a sound that she felt rather than heard, and she clenched her fists and pushed off with her quadriceps, all of the frustration and fear and rage that had been contained for the past several hours suddenly unleashed.

It worked. She knocked her assailant back when the trunk came up, and though he recovered quickly and attempted to slam it shut again, she blocked it with her body and was suddenly, incredibly, tumbling out of the car and into the open air.

There was no time to revel in the victory, however. In the instant that it took for her to reorient herself, her attacker regained his bearings and squared off.

She blinked, struggling to process what she was seeing.

_Who _she was seeing.

The Lady Killer stared at her from eyes at once familiar and utterly unknown, and Brennan suddenly had no idea how she could possibly win this.

* * *

When they pulled into Artie's garage, he was in the back room with all of his equipment, staring obsessively at a unit that Booth knew should be tracking Bones right that second.

It sure as hell didn't look like it was tracking anything.

"You get anything yet?" he asked.

Artie shook his head. A second passed, then two, and Booth started thinking about the questions he didn't want to consider, the ones he'd been trying to pretend weren't important. But he couldn't really pretend that anymore, could he?

He closed the gap between he and Artie with a single stride, so fast that Artie finally looked up.

"You okay, Seel?" he asked.

Booth shook his head honestly. "I don't know that I am, actually. Can you answer a question for me?"

Artie nodded, still looking at him funny. "Yeah, Seel – if I can." He paused, kind of gave him a look. "You wanna back off a little first, though?"

Booth didn't move. "If I changed the security code last night after Mickey left, would you know how to figure out what I'd changed it to?"

The other man didn't take his eyes from Booth when he nodded a second time. "Yeah. There's a recall default I can set – couple buttons, a master override, and I'm in."

Booth nodded, not surprised by the information. "Anybody else know how to do that?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Mickey," Artie said, and he dropped his eyes for a second.

Booth ran his hand through his hair, taking a couple of breaths. "Yesterday when we were talking about the senator, you got that look – you know what I'm talking about?"

Angela looked at Booth, an eyebrow raised. "I'm sorry – what look is that, exactly?"

Artie caught his eye, and Booth was sure the man knew what he meant. Still, just for argument's sake, he figured he'd spell it out.

"The look he'd get just before some piece of crap Army gadget he'd been trying to figure out whispered all its secrets to him. And presto," he snapped his fingers, attempted a smile. He fell flat, by a mile. "Suddenly Artie's solved the puzzle." He studied his old friend for a second, and he knew in that second exactly how things were about to play out.

"So, Art… Did you solve the puzzle?"

Angela was listening to all of this, completely lost. He should've left her home. Flown her back to D.C. Hell, he should've flown all of them back to D.C. Artie swallowed hard, stared at the floor.

"I don't know. The reason for the look is just, I still work for the senator – Mick doesn't know. He creeped her out, she didn't want him around the place. I still do jobs for her, but I keep it quiet. I didn't want him to figure it out, get all bent out of shape."

And like that, ten hours too late, the pieces fell into place.

"But Mickey was there when it counted, wasn't he?" Booth asked. "When she was married to Doc Taylor – that's how he met Farnham, right?"

Artie shook his head. "I don't know Farnham – just what you've told me about him, and seeing him at the reading that night. But, yeah. We met Dr. Taylor, shared some war stories. Mickey really liked the guy – they've gone out tracking together a few times. Taylor's a big hunting fan, he does those rich bitch canned hunts in Africa, brings back a rhino's head or an ashtray made from gorilla hands, that kind of shit."

Booth closed his eyes, tried to keep himself steady. He remembered that baseball bat to the gut again, and wished to God this felt half as good.

"Can you tell me what's going on with the tracker, Art?" Suddenly terrified of what he knew he was about to hear.

"It got switched out," Artie said softly. "She's still wearing the transmitter, and somebody's still tracking her, but – "

"But that somebody's not you," Booth completed for him.

He shook his head. "I don't have the frequencies, any of the input information. I don't know…" Another shake of the head. "I don't know how he did it."

It was the final straw. He wasn't even sure _why _it was the final straw – maybe it was just that everything had been piling up for so long that anything would've done it.

"Sure you do," he snapped. He grabbed the monitor from Artie's hands and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and splintered into a hundred expensive pieces, and Angela jumped. "He did it the way anybody you trust would – he played you. Played all of us. The difference is, you kept your fucking mouth shut after you figured it out, didn't you, Art?"

He got closer, his hands on the arms of the wheelchair, leaning down so he was right in Artie's face – ready to tear him to pieces. "And now, because you didn't have the guts to say something to me about it, he's got my – " he stopped, his voice gone. A second passed, and all of a sudden he found himself thinking about that night in her bed, the way she'd looked at him when she said it: _I think I'm in love with you. _

Why the hell had they waited so long?

He took a step back, pushed Artie's wheelchair away. Didn't look at his friend's face, because he knew what he'd see there. He was shaking – bad, the way his old man used to once he hit the twelve-hours-sober mark. He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair.

"They've got her, and I don't have a fucking clue where they are or how to get her back. And now, thanks to that goddamn tracker I kept hounding her about, if she does manage to get away, Mickey's got a homing device that'll take him within twenty feet of her."

Angela came over and took his arm. "Let's go back to the house, Booth. The others will be here soon – we'll talk to them, we'll come up with a plan."

He nodded, quiet now. He'd found her before when the odds were stacked against them – she'd managed to stay alive then, she'd do the same thing now.

She had to.

* * *

Brennan stood on a dirt road in the pouring rain, mountains in the distance, the air blessedly cool on her overheated skin. The trees were tall and thick, covered with green moss, the surrounding foliage appearing virtually impenetrable.

Mickey didn't look worried when she stood facing him, though she'd made it out of the car, out of the ropes. Though she was standing there and he didn't seem to have a gun – at least, he didn't have one trained on her at the moment. She was sure he had one in the immediate proximity. She recalled the injuries the previous victims had suffered – the fact that the profilers all agreed that the killer had enjoyed the struggle. Been aroused by the fight.

He'd been hoping for this, she realized.

That didn't mean she had to die like the others, she reminded herself. She appraised the situation quickly, feeling very much as though Mickey was anticipating her every move. He stood three feet from her, his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands up, open – a defensive stance. A faint smile on his lips, his eyes nothing like they'd been around Booth all this time. But she pushed that thought away quickly – she couldn't think about who this was, or what it would mean in the end.

Focus on the present: _Knock him down. Gun, keys, distance. Keep the priorities clear. _

A full five seconds passed before Brennan finally made her move – closing the distance between them quickly before she lifted her knee to strike him in the kidneys. After that, everything happened in triple time – predictably enough, he anticipated the knee strike, catching her leg with his right hand while he landed a blow to her stomach with the left. She spun, managing to free her leg, managing to stay upright though the impact from the blow stunned her momentarily, left her gasping for air. She blocked him before he could hit her in the jaw, spun again and caught him in the back with her knee this time.

He hadn't been expecting that – he stumbled forward, but stayed on his feet. Recovered quickly, striking out to try and catch her in the pelvis with an impressively precise snap kick. She stepped back in time, and they both just stood there for a moment. At an impasse. She thought of her sensei in D.C., a woman with whom she'd studied for years – Mickey had clearly been studying, as well.

When two fighters were equally matched, it ultimately came down to endurance. Brennan had no shoes, no cover from the rain, had been drugged, and was suffering from a head injury, the severity of which she was uncertain.

She didn't know how to get the advantage, when those were the circumstances.

He smiled, appearing to relax.

"Why don't we just go to the house? We don't need to do this here – you can get warm. Get dried off. I'll take care of you, you don't need to worry about a thing."

She struck again before the last sentence was out, faster this time – harder. Faking with a kick to the left before she landed a single blow, hard, snapping the heel of her hand into his nose. He hadn't seen this one coming – she spun, landed a front kick to his knee cap that finally knocked him off his feet, and then raced for the driver's seat.

* * *

Once they were back in the Prius, he dialed Mickey.

No answer.

He called Katie in D.C. next, because he was sick of Oregon and everyone in it.

"I need you to look for any property owned by a Doctor Philip Taylor – he lives in Portland, Oregon, but I think he might have a place somewhere in Washington. Or…" he thought about it for a second. "Maybe Canada. Or somewhere in the Sierras."

Katie didn't hesitate. "We just got word from Warner, he told us what happened – he said anything you need."

He took a shaky breath. "Good. That's what I need. And do a second check, on a Sergeant Michael Sixx – he was a Ranger. He was RFSed in '97. Can you let me know if there's any property in his name, anywhere on the West Coast?"

"I'll find out, and call you right back." She paused for a second or two. "Booth – you know that thing I said the other day, like I didn't think you guys would last?"

"Yeah, Katie – you didn't mean it, I know."

"I was just kidding around," she agreed, sounding sorry as hell. "I like Dr. Brennan – I mean, as much as I can for somebody who never remembers my name and always thinks I'm a secretary. But you guys… You'll find her, Booth."

He nodded, still fighting to hang onto some semblance of control. "Yeah. I'll find her." He scrubbed his hand with his chin, felt the stubble that marked too many hours gone by. "Call me when you've got that stuff I asked for, all right?"

After he hung up, Angela turned to him. "You think Mickey was lying about Dr. Taylor being around this morning?"

He laughed, a bitter edge to his voice when he spoke. "I think Mickey's been lying since the day I met him – he's not gonna stop now."

"You said he was RFSed – what does that mean?"

He had the feeling she was just trying to keep him talking – mostly trying to keep him from going out of his skull, and he was actually grateful to have something else to focus on.

"Relieved For Standards – the polite way of saying he'd gone off his nut. He blamed it on Artie getting paralyzed, but…" he paused, going back over those days. Things he should have seen, a thousand signs he'd been blind to. "I should've seen this."

"Right," Angela nodded. "Because if you'd listened a little closer, he was obviously just screaming 'I'm a psychotic monster who gets off on torturing women.' And all those other people who met him and thought he was a little weird but ultimately harmless – they just weren't paying attention either, right? Come on, Booth. This isn't your fault."

She gave him a knowing look, trying to take the pressure off, but he knew that wouldn't happen until Bones was back, safe and sound.

"I should have seen it," he said shortly.

They drove the rest of the way back to the house in silence.

Everyone was at the house when they got back – _everyone, _everyone. Hodgins, Cam, Sweets, Wendell. Tripp. All sitting in the kitchen, waiting for him and Angela to get back. Angela burst into tears as soon as she laid eyes on Hodgins, and the squint just hung onto her for dear life.

Booth knew exactly how he felt.

"What have you heard?" Cam asked, ready to dive into the whole thing, then and there.

Booth blinked, exhausted all of a sudden. He didn't know where to start. What to do next – or first, for that matter. Washington was standing in the doorway like he was ready to run in any direction, but Booth just stood in silence – praying, suddenly, that this was all a dream. He'd wake up, and Bones would be there. Sound asleep in his arms, her hand on his heart, and he'd wake her and they'd make love like none of this had ever happened.

He sat down at the kitchen table, then looked at Tripp blankly. Blinked again, rubbing his forehead.

"Didn't you have a course?"

Tripp came over and crouched down, looked him in the eye. Then looked back at Angela.

"Has he seen a doctor about that whack on the head?"

She shook her head. Sniffled a little. "He wouldn't talk to anyone about it. I cleaned it out with peroxide, but he told the paramedic to…" she paused when he gave her a look. "He wasn't exactly civil to the paramedic," she concluded.

Tripp made Booth follow his finger with his eyes – which made his headache worse, and made that queasy, seasick feeling come back, to boot.

"Booth, you're suffering from post traumat – " Sweets started, getting way too close and talking way too loud, until Tripp grabbed him by the arm and backed him off.

"Easy – we don't poke the bear, right?" Tripp said easily, giving a nod toward the living room. "Why don't you guys go hang out in there a few minutes. I'm just gonna do a quick once-over."

"I don't need a once-over from some goddamn Outward Bound refugee who learned First Aid from Smokey the Bear," Booth said, his tone wooden, his eyes still dead ahead. He was still thinking… He just didn't know what, exactly, it was he was thinking.

Cam cleared her throat. "Tripp's a doctor, Seeley," she said – kind of quiet, and he knew that if he hadn't been knocked on the head and had his partner stolen out from under him, he would've paid a lot more for that crack. "He had a practice in Manhattan for years – he's still certified."

Booth looked at him for a second. Rubbed the back of his neck. Bones would ask questions – she'd want to know all about this information. He wondered if she would understand the Smokey the Bear reference.

Tripp pulled up a chair next to him, and Sweets, Wendell, Hodgins, and Angela went back into the living room. The cops seemed to be gone. Washington stood in the doorway for another few seconds before he pulled out another cigarette and went back into the rain. He'd either die from pneumonia or lung cancer, but either way Washington's future didn't look too bright.

But then, neither did Booth's.

Cam stayed put, taking the other chair at the kitchen table. She stayed quiet while Tripp gave him the third degree.

"Did you take something this morning?" he asked. "After you found out Temperance was gone, maybe? To take the edge off?"

Booth shook his head. "What, you mean drugs?" He rolled his eyes. "No. Geez, what do I look like, some kind of junkie? I got shot with a tranq gun last night. Or this morning, I guess."

"Did you tell the police?" Cam asked, looking completely freaked out by the news. "You should have been tested – we have no idea what could be in your system at this point."

"It's not in my system, all right?" he looked straight at her, maybe for the first time since they got there. "I tossed just about everything I've had in my system for the past twenty-four hours. There's nothing left."

Tripp nodded, trying to soothe him – like he was some kind of mental patient or something. He felt like a mental patient, all of a sudden.

"Mickey did it," Booth said suddenly, saying the words out loud. "We found out the who – I just don't know the where. I told the cops, they're canvassing the area. They've got copters out. Search and rescue." He started to get up, but his knees buckled. He sat back down, holding tight to the edge of the table. "He'd take her to the woods," he said. Almost whispered it.

Tripp looked at him, squeezed his shoulder. "There's a lot of woods around here," he said. It should have been the wrong thing to say, but it turns out it wasn't – Booth was grateful to have somebody who wasn't saying, _You'll find her. She'll be okay. Just keep praying. _

"Yeah," Booth nodded numbly. "It's a lot of woods."

* * *

The keys were in the ignition.

Brennan would have wept, if there were time for such emotional displays.

Mickey fired a shot from behind her, and then another. She kept going. Closed the car door, started the engine, tore away from the scene with the trunk still open and shots still ringing through the air.

A bullet hit the rear tire, and she skidded dangerously close to the edge of the deeply rutted road. She continued regardless, another shot shattering the back windshield - she focused on the road ahead, on putting as much distance as possible between she and Mickey. The car was barely drivable, and she knew it wouldn't be long before she would be forced to stop. But first – distance.

That distance was, unfortunately, considerably less than she'd hoped for. She'd managed perhaps three miles through rain and mud, over one of the worst roads she'd ever had the misfortune to drive, the car careening dangerously down the steep grade, when the front tire hit a pothole the size of a full grown man, and blew out.

For at least sixty seconds, barreling down a steep incline at top speed, Brennan was certain she was about to die.

She downshifted and tapped the brake, forcing herself to steer into the skid even though doing so would mean going off the road. _Not _steering into the skid, however, meant that she would not only go off the road, she would likely flip the car while doing so.

She fastened her seatbelt, braced herself.

Once she actually hit, however, the crash was blessedly anticlimactic. The momentum was broken by several low-lying bushes before the car finally hit a large tree, which meant that Brennan was jolted forward, but the airbag deployed and, astonishingly enough, damage was minimal.

She didn't die.

She'd survived the trunk, and the crash. She'd gotten away – not that far away, true, and she still didn't have a cell phone, or a gun. Or shoes. Or anything but a pair of wet flannel pajamas. But, regardless… Survival was a good place to start. She considered staying in the car, but realized that such a move would, indeed, be suicide.

How far had she managed to get, she wondered?

She searched the car for anything that might help her cause, and found a Swiss army knife, a musty old wool blanket that she realized after a moment's hesitation would only slow her down, a pair of wool socks, and two road flares from Mickey's roadside emergency kit. She took the knife and the flares, pulled on the wool socks, and braced herself for the cold, wet forest.

* * *

Everyone kept telling him to take it easy – go take a shower, let Tripp look at his head, let the cops handle finding Bones.

They kept saying it, but he could tell there wasn't a person there who actually believed he'd listen.

Noon came and went without a word.

Katie called to say there was no record of Taylor or Mickey owning any property outside of Portland – not that Booth was surprised. He kept staring at the pictures on the wall, the map of the body dumps and the mass grave, the files and all the facts that so far hadn't revealed a goddamn thing.

Philip Taylor was nowhere to be found.

TJ, on the other hand, had actually been in Lethem's workshop all morning – Booth called and talked to him, live and in person.

Caleb was where he was supposed to be. Doug was in surgery 'til two. Washington was back at his office, following up leads that Booth would bet dollars to donuts wouldn't turn up shit.

Booth paced around the living room, trying to come up with ideas. Waiting for the phone to ring. Going slowly fucking nuts.

At a little after one, he was standing off to the side of the room because sitting would kill him, the facts of the case running through his head and that endless question repeating itself - _Where is she? _Wendell and Sweets were in the kitchen looking for food. Hodgins and Angela were on the couch, Tripp was up staring at a map. Cam was on the phone.

He took a breath. "I'm going to the Llewellyn's," he announced.

Nobody looked like they thought that was a good idea.

"Maybe you should take a shower first, hon," Angela said. "With the bruise and the bandage and the manly smell, you're a little too Night of the Living Dead to inspire much confidence."

She tried a smile, but she still looked like hell. The smile kind of crumpled in on itself, and she just got quiet again – leaned her head on Jack's shoulder, and he took her hand. She was sitting with her knees curled up to her chest, and Booth knew she wouldn't be able to sit that way much longer, with the baby coming. It made him think of Rebecca and Parker, and the way Parker looked that first time Booth saw him in the hospital, and even though he knew Bones didn't want kids, it still made him think of her.

"Seeley?" Cam said, like she'd already said his name a couple of times now and was getting the feeling he'd checked out.

Which he clearly had.

"I really think you should let the police handle this," she told him.

He nodded. "Yeah, I know." He got his jacket, still wet from the last time he'd gone out. "I just need some air."

Tripp turned around, already grabbing his coat. "Same here – mind if I come along?"

Booth shook his head. Tripp knew how to be quiet – knew what not to say, how to be there and still stay out of the way.

"Yeah, fine – we'll be back in a while."

The workshops were over for the day at the Llewellyn's, and everyone was getting ready for the afternoon seminar when Booth got there. He stopped at the information desk inside the entryway, and the girl manning the table took one look at him and reached for the phone. So, apparently Night of the Living Dead hadn't been an overstatement.

"I need to talk to Senator Woolrich – you know where she is?" he asked.

Tripp nudged him in the arm. "Maybe you should show her your badge."

Booth did as Tripp suggested, and the girl set down the phone. She still looked nervous, though.

"Senator Woolrich is upstairs – second door to your left."

He headed up the stairs without thanking her, and was instantly back to the night before – thinking of the way Bones had looked at him, her hand in his, pulling him up the stairs. _I just want to be alone with you._ He thought of her body – the way she arched her back, the curve of her hips, the way she looked at him and God, he prayed she never stopped looking at him that way.

_Please don't stop. _

The senator was meeting with a student, apparently. She got on her high horse for about twenty seconds before she saw the look in Booth's eye (and the bruises and bandage on his head) and got a lot more accommodating.

"Have you seen Philip Taylor today?" Booth asked her.

She was wearing a purple skirt with a matching jacket. Now that Booth was bloodied and battered and apparently less of a catch because of it, she fixed her attention on Tripp – who smiled politely, but mostly kept his mouth shut.

"I don't believe Dr. Taylor's in today," she said. "He was quite upset about his cousin's death. I'm sure you understand."

Booth nodded, but he knew he didn't inject a whole lot of compassion into that nod. "When you two were married, did he ever take you to a cabin in the woods anywhere? Maybe up in Washington, or Nevada? Somewhere remote?"

She smiled, winked at Tripp. "I'm not really that kind of girl – if Philip needed time in the great outdoors, he typically went alone."

"He never took your sons with him – Doug or Caleb?" Booth pressed.

She looked a little worried now, finally catching onto the fact that this wasn't just a social call.

"What's going on? Has something happened to Philip?"

Tripp shook his head quickly, stepping into the conversation. "No, ma'am – we just need to speak with him. There's nowhere you can think of, that he might be?"

She shook her head. "No – nowhere that I'd know, but Philip is a very private person. He liked his space."

"Thank you," Booth said, cutting her off before she'd really finished talking, already heading for the door. His chest felt tight all of a sudden – he took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm. He'd just about hit the door when the senator called after them.

"You might try my son Douglas – I think he did go on an expedition with Philip when he was younger. Perhaps he can help you."

He moved at a fast clip, down the stairs and out the front door, and didn't stop until he was off the porch and standing in the pouring rain with Tripp on his heels. _Keep moving, _he kept telling himself. _Sit still and you'll drown, but if you just keep moving… _

He kept moving.

* * *

As it turned out, there was a reason no one marketed flannel pajamas as ideal hiking gear. Brennan's wool socks were likewise soaked through, though she kept them on in an effort to protect her feet. Her optimism had faded as the afternoon wore on, as the rain kept falling and jshe ust kept getting colder and more lost. All she could do was keep moving, keep running in a blind effort to either evade Mickey or find Booth. Because he must be out here, mustn't he? She was capable of taking care of herself – if anyone needed any proof of that, she felt confident she'd provided ample evidence of that today. But he should be here, shouldn't he?

Her temperature was dangerously low while her head was surprisingly hot, and the more she ran, the farther from help she imagined she was getting. If she could just sit still – just wait, the tracker sending out signals, and why hadn't he come yet? He'd touted the damned thing as some miraculous cure-all should she be taken, but she had yet to see any evidence to support that claim now that it actually mattered. It had been hours – had he been hurt when they took her? She felt as though she'd been running for days, losing energy and direction and any sense of time or space.

Booth would say, _Keep running. Go, go, go. _He would tell her to find a way to get warm – she thought about the day of the solo at Outward Bound, of swimming along the shore looking for him. She'd thought she was cold then but, honestly, she'd had no idea what cold was. He'd given her his sweatshirt, started a fire by rubbing two sticks together.

_What kind of Ranger do you think I was, Bones? _

Smiled at her.

The woods were thick and silent, not a trail to be seen. In a wilderness survival course she'd taken years ago, she learned that the best way to ward off hypothermia and ensure survival was to keep moving, but – god, she was so cold. The rain kept coming, pelting her face and drenched body like iced machine gunfire, the woods completely still but for her own labored breathing, her own footsteps through the wet leaves.

And then, somewhere behind her, she heard something rustling. How far back? How many steps behind, how many yards? A branch broke, as loudly as any gunshot she'd ever heard.

Booth told her Mickey didn't break branches – not by mistake.

Was he playing with her, toying with her the way a cat would before it devoured its prey?

_Keep moving, _Booth would say.

Her father would say, _Don't let the bastards drag you down, honey._

More walking. She stepped on something sharp, and had to stop for just a moment. She sat on a rain-soaked boulder, moss on its north side. North? She didn't know that, she'd made it up.

So tired.

She thought again of the periodic table, bones, passing time.

Booth.

She'd gotten a shard of glass lodged fairly deeply in her foot. Her hands were shaking – it was difficult to pull out the glass, though she'd performed much more complex procedures with these very hands, countless times before.

_Get up, get up, get up, _Booth whispered to her.

She just had to stay hidden until Booth found her. She reached up, touched the transmitter still nestled inside her ear.

"I'm here," she whispered. Closed her eyes. Was this what praying was like, she wondered? Hodgins said she had faith – _What you have is faith, baby. _

Booth called her baby.

She should hate it, but she found she did not.

She wiped the blood from her foot with a wet maple leaf, and put the soaked, ineffectual wool sock back on, despite how uncomfortable it was. Stood, then sat back down when a wave of dizziness overtook her, and then fought to her feet once more when she heard Him whistling somewhere in the distance. The wind was blowing, it was impossible to tell his direction. He had shoes, and a gun, and only a bloody nose whereas she hadn't eaten, was verging on hypothermic and likely in shock.

"Tempe," he called. "You're only making this harder." He paused. "But I love you for trying."

She stood still for a moment, trying to figure out direction. He whistled again – a tuneless song that she didn't know, but she suspected Booth would. It was coming from behind her, she thought. Her choices were limited: a virtually impenetrable path farther up the mountain, or continue the way she was headed on relatively flat terrain. At the very top of the mountain, barely discernible through the trees and the rain, she could just make out the shape of a house.

A house that probably belonged to Mickey, she reasoned.

If it did not, however, there might be people inside. Warm clothes. A phone.

Safety.

He would expect her to choose the easy path, wouldn't he? Wasn't that the most logical? She took a deep breath, wiped the rain from her eyes with cold, shaking hands, and began to climb.

* * *

Booth was silent on the way to Portland Presbyterian. Tripp – the one he'd thought had the good sense to stay quiet – kept talking to him, asking questions, until finally Booth gave him a look, and turned the radio on.

The song playing was that Poco one he sang to her, six million years ago.

_Keep on tryin'. _

He turned the station, where an announcer was telling him how to win tickets to an Ellis Paul concert in Portland next month.

He turned off the radio.

"You'll find her," Tripp said.

It was three o'clock. Twelve hours gone – twelve hours with Mickey. He thought of Paraguay – the way he remembered it, versus the way he suspected it had really gone down.

"You don't know that," Booth said, because he didn't want to think about Paraguay.

"No," Tripp agreed. "I don't. But I think you'll find her."

"She's been gone twelve hours," he said. His voice sounded raw, like he hadn't said a word for days. "You know what happened to the others in twelve hours?"

"They didn't die in that time," Tripp said. "Alive is all that matters. And she's not like the others. She's not like anybody – you know that. You just have to keep doing what you're doing."

He thought of Washington – how long had he just kept doing what he was doing? Kept looking, kept hoping, until years went by and he'd given up everything just so he could bring home a corpse.

"I don't know if I can," Booth said quietly.

Tripp gave him a kind of long, easy look. Smiled, like he didn't have a doubt in the world. "I do. You'll find her."

When they got to the hospital, Doug was just out of the OR, blood on his scrubs and looking more tired than he had that morning when he barged into their kitchen at the crack of dawn. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Booth.

"You should have that scalp lac looked at – you need stitches."

Tripp gave Booth a look. "What did I tell you?"

"I'm fine," Booth said. "When your mother was married to Philip Taylor, did he ever take you out hunting or anything?"

Doug looked at him strangely. "You sure you don't want that head injury looked at?" He shook his head. "Uh – no, Philip didn't really bring anybody with him when he went in the woods. We went to a couple ballgames, and he took me up to Washington once, scuba diving in Puget Sound. That was the only outdoorsy thing we ever did though, really."

Booth nodded, feeling his chest tighten again – even though he hadn't really expected anything different. "Do you remember him mentioning anyplace he liked to go? Someplace where he said the hunting was good, anything like that?"

Doug thought about the question for a while, before he finally shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. Nothing comes to mind. Why?" He looked at Booth, almost like he knew something. "Did he do something?"

They locked eyes for a minute, Booth trying to read him. For a second, the ego kind of vanished and Booth thought he could picture Doug the way he'd probably been as a kid – a little soft, longing for the rock and roll lifestyle but handcuffed to the family's dreams instead.

"Why do you ask that?" Booth asked, his voice a little sharper than he meant it to be.

He shrugged, the look disappearing. "It's nothing – he was just always… alone. He just reminded me of that guy, you know – 'Kept to himself, mostly – we never knew he had sixteen bodies in the basement.' That kind of thing."

Booth swallowed hard. He pulled out one of his cards, handing it to Doug. Tried to stop his hand from shaking when he did so, but that was pretty much a lost cause.

"Call me if you hear from him, or if you think of anything – _anything – _that you think might give us a clue where he is. Doesn't matter what time it is."

Doug nodded seriously. "I will. Good luck."

Booth bolted again, several steps ahead of Tripp, out the hospital entrance and into the parking lot, trying to get his breath.

She was nowhere.

* * *

On the climb up, she fell twice - the second time hitting her ankle against a ledge, so hard that for a moment she had to simply cling to the side of the mountain with her eyes closed. Trying to push past the pain, to move into some silent place where this could no longer touch her. She swallowed hard. Booth would be able to do this, she told herself. And while he might be physically stronger, women were known to have a higher pain threshold and better endurance.

If Booth could do this, so could she.

When she finally reached the top, she was not only sopping wet and bleeding, she was filthy. She was rewarded for her efforts, however, by the fact that the house on the mountaintop was empty.

It wasn't a good idea to go inside – Brennan knew this, she wasn't an imbecile.

But she would die of exposure if she stayed outside, so… It seemed that the risk would have to be worth it.

_Nothing ventured, nothing gained,_ her father used to say.

The house was a two story structure with the garage built into the side of the mountain. There was no car in the garage, but the door was unlocked. She stepped inside, smelling sawdust and concrete – it was a good sized garage, with an expansive workbench against the far wall and a wooden staircase leading upstairs.

She took off her wet socks to avoid tracking water through the house, though that seemed virtually impossible given the rivers of rainwater that dripped from her clothes. The cement floor was cool on her frozen feet, and she took a moment to order her thoughts. She needed dry clothes. A telephone. To determine where she was. There were phone lines nearby – she'd spotted them, which meant it was possible that the house might have a landline.

There were different sized saw blades hanging in gradations on the wall beside the stairs – Brennan studied them, noting that they appeared to be antiques. Whoever lived here was a woodworker of some kind. She tried to remember if Booth had ever mentioned Mickey enjoying carpentry.

She crept up the stairs, stopping short when she hit a squeaky stair and the sound reverberated through the garage. A second passed, then two, but no one appeared from the shadows. She continued up the stairs.

At the door leading to the rest of the house, she stood with her hand shaking on the doorknob for a few seconds before she realized that, either way, her time was running out. She either made a move now, or she returned to the forest – but hesitating in either case would surely get her killed.

She opened the door.

Though it was still daylight outside, between the drawn shades and the cloudy weather, the house was quite dark. The garage door opened into the kitchen, which was small and cluttered.

"Hello?" she said softly, praying desperately that no one would answer.

No response.

She continued inside. There was the kitchen, a small living area, a tiny bathroom, and a bedroom, with the door standing open. The living area had a futon on the floor and an unattractive shag carpet, a faded fly fishing calendar on the wall, and dark wood paneling throughout. An old plastic clock with a stag on the face told her the time was ten past four.

There was a rain jacket draped over a recliner patched with duct tape, in one corner. She glanced at the jacket, noting that there was no moisture on it – whoever lived here apparently had more than one raincoat. She began scanning the walls in search of phone wires, becoming more and more frantic as the seconds wore on. In the back of her mind, she went over possible escape routes should Mickey arrive – there were windows, but she saw no evidence of another door anywhere.

She would be trapped.

She was shivering, the shift to the warm, dry interior dramatic enough to set her internal temperature completely off-kilter. Her hands were like ice, her sodden clothes clinging to her. Dry clothes first, or continue searching for the phone?

The question was answered for her, when she spotted a telephone cord coming from an old, poorly made chest of drawers beside the futon. She forgot about the cold, forgot about her exhaustion, and opened the drawer.

A phone.

She picked up the receiver, and half laughed, half sobbed when she heard the dial tone.

Shaking violently, she positioned herself so she could look out the window at the road below while she dialed the old rotary phone.

The call went through. She waited an interminable three rings, before a familiar voice answered.

"Booth."

* * *

Booth didn't say a word on the way back to the house. One look at everyone's faces when he walked through the door told him everything he needed to know about what they'd turned up while he was gone:

Not a goddamn thing.

He went up to the bedroom. Got a change of clothes from his duffel bag, remembering her words the night before. _I've never given anyone a drawer before, but there's no symbolism. I don't believe in symbolism. _

In the bathroom, he started the shower and stripped off his wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Her earrings were on the counter by the sink, their toothbrushes sitting in the toothbrush holder side by side. If he just based everything on those two rooms – the bedroom and the bathroom – he could imagine that nothing had changed. He was taking a shower after a long day, she was in the bedroom. Sitting up late, reading. Waiting for him. He'd get clean, maybe not even bother to dry off, and go back in there. She'd roll her eyes at him, tell him not to get the sheets all wet.

He set his cell phone next to the shower, so he could hear it if it rang. The water was too hot, but he didn't add any cold to it – just stood there and let it burn him, leaning with his forehead against the tile. When he closed his eyes, he could see her. Her blue eyes, that half-smile she gave him sometimes, the way she tilted her head. He wasn't supposed to get his head wet because of the cut, but he didn't really care - it stung like hell when the water hit, enough to bring tears to his eyes.

It was possible, though, that they weren't actually because of the cut.

He prayed to wake up.

He was standing with his forehead on the tile and his eyes closed, almost asleep or in a trance or just... lost, maybe, when the phone rang.

He didn't even bother to dry off, just stepped out of the shower and answered, praying all the while.

"Booth."

There was a long pause – he thought it might be a hang up, but then in one gorgeous, unexpected second, she was there.

"It's me," she said. "Bones – Temperance." Like he'd forgotten or something.

He almost passed out with relief. "Bones? Jesus, Bones – where are you? Are you okay?" All the tears he'd been choking back for the past fourteen hours came flooding out, so that he was standing there buck naked dripping onto her bathroom floor, crying like a baby. He was kind of grateful she wasn't there to see it, actually.

There was another pause. "I got away. I'm not certain where I got away _to, _but I got away. Booth, it's Mickey," she said, her voice filled with regret.

He nodded, trying to get his voice back to normal. "I know, baby – it's okay. I know. Where are you?" he asked again.

He imagined her frown, could practically hear it in her voice. "Where are _you? _I have the tracker – aren't you supposed to be here by now?"

He hesitated. Shit. "You still have it in?"

"Yes, damn it. I was led to believe – "

"Bones, listen to me – you've gotta take it out. Smash it, flush it, whatever. And then get as far from wherever you are as possible, 'til I can get there."

"But you _told _me – " she said, her voice taking on that pissy edge – he'd never heard anything so beautiful in his life. He pulled on a pair of boxers and headed downstairs, signaling to the others.

"It's her," he said, and everyone looked shell shocked and relieved as hell, all at once.

"I know, Bones – listen, I'll explain all of that later. First – you need to tell me where you are."

A longer pause this time. When she spoke again, her voice had changed – smaller, less sure of herself. Exhausted.

"I don't know, Booth. I'm on a mountain. The flora looks like Washington state, there are – "

"Hang on, baby," he said, hesitating just a second before he put her on speaker, holding it up so the others could hear.

"You're on speaker, Bones. Hodgins is here – tell him what you told me."

"Hodgins is there?" she asked, sounding dazed.

"Right here, Dr. Brennan," Hodgins said quickly. "What can you tell me about the area?"

"It's primarily spruce trees, the forest floor covered with a thick coat of moss, ferns, mushrooms – "

"Wait," Hodgins stopped her. "What kind of mushrooms? Can you describe them for me?"

She didn't say anything for a long time. Then, almost too low to hear, "Damn it."

Booth's heart dropped. He grabbed the phone and brought it back to his ear.

"What is it?"

"He's here," she said, in a voice he'd never heard from her before. Completely panicked.

"We're gonna trace this call, okay, Bones? You don't need to worry – all you've gotta do is stay alive for the next couple of hours. Just get to the highest place you can find out there, and we'll find you."

"I have to go," she said.

And, like that, she was gone again.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

_Okay, guys - I know I promised this would be wrapped up this weekend, but I did a total re-write on this chapter and so... It's gonna have to be Wednesday. HOWEVER... Here's the second to last chapter, which has answers and resolutions galore. Hope you like, sorry it's late!_

* * *

Brennan was on the phone with Booth, amazed at how much better she felt simply hearing his voice. He was all right - nothing had happened, he was still there. He was still looking. She crouched at the living room window while she talked to him, looking down the mountainside at the winding road leading up to the house. He was telling her that there was a problem with the damned transmitter when she spotted the car - still a few miles down the road, but traveling quickly. Her heart sped up but she forced herself to stay calm, tried to maintain focus.

"You need to tell me where you are," he said.

He'd actually said it three times, but Brennan was busy watching the car make its slow way up the road, searching desperately for an old utility bill or some other piece of mail that might give some indication of where she was. There was nothing. Her hands were shaking, her heart racing, she wished that time would just stop for one second - that the car coming to her would break down or turn around and go back where it came from, that she could just stay on the phone a little while longer, until she could give him something that would help find her.

The car didn't turn around and go back, though. Two men were int he front seat - they were driving an SUV, a nicer vehicle than the one she'd stolen from Mickey and crashed earlier in the day.

"I don't know, Booth," she ifnally admitted, fighting tears of frustration. "I'm on a mountain." She thought of the wildlife she'd seen, the verdant forest floor. "The flora looks like Washington state. There are – "

He stopped her, and suddenly she was speaking with Hodgins. She brushed away her tears, struggling to regain some sense of decorum. She couldn't fall apart – simply focus on the facts, and the rest would have to take care of itself. The SUV was not more than half a mile away now, and she tried once more in vain to see the faces inside. Tried to order her thoughts, think of details that would give them some clue as to her whereabouts, but words eluded her.

And then she saw the faces: Mickey and Dr. Taylor, riding together. Coming for her.

She almost dropped the phone.

"Damn it," she whispered, and then Booth was speaking with her without the others, but she'd run out of time.

"All you've gotta do is stay alive for the next couple of hours," he told her. He sounded panicked himself – she wondered what had happened in her absence, what he'd done when he learned that the killer was Mickey. She wanted to tell him she loved him, she missed him, she wanted them to get a dog and go to Rome.

There was no time.

"I have to go," she said.

She hung up, wiping away her tears, ignoring her physical discomfort. She would survive, and Booth would come.

Find high ground, stay alive.

The SUV reached the long, winding driveway to the house. She pulled out the tracking device and smashed it with an old book lying on the floor beside the futon. Went to the kitchen and ransacked the drawers until she found a large butcher's knife – the only weapon available to her, it seemed. Shivering violently, her ankle visibly swollen from her earlier fall, she went into the bedroom and pulled out dresser drawers until she found a man's sweatshirt, cargo pants, and dry socks.

She peeled off her wet clothes and left them on the bedroom floor, pulled on the dry ones with her heart beating wildly, and found a pair of hiking boots at least two sizes too large in the closet. She added an extra pair of socks from the dresser drawer, and pulled on the boots.

Outside, a car door slammed.

And another.

She grabbed the raincoat she'd seen on the futon, and raced for the only window that wasn't facing toward the garage – the bedroom, which looked over a muddy embankment at the back of the house. She pushed up the window and the screen, hearing footsteps on the stairs. Snagged her raincoat on a nail, and finally tore it in a desperate bid to free herself in time.

The drop wasn't high – five or six feet at most, and she didn't jump so much as tumble out the window, landing on her feet only to skid precariously in the mud before she regained her balance. She looked around her, taking in the mountains and the trees, the mud and the rain.

She was still alive.

* * *

Booth didn't waste more than a second of regret after the line went dead, calling one of his guys at the Hoover to get a trace on the call the instant he realized she was gone. As soon as he hung up, everybody seemed to come to life.

"Um – wow," Sweets said. "She's alive. This is... wow. We need to do something, right?" He was pacing, and he looked a hell of a lot more emotional than Booth was used to seeing him. "I mean – this is a call to arms if I ever heard one. We should _definitely _be doing something."

He looked at Booth. "What should we do?"

Booth couldn't even muster the energy to give the kid a look. He just took a deep breath, letting that slow wash of relief sink in for just a second. No, she wasn't out of the woods yet – literally. But she was still alive, and right now that was worth a hell of a lot.

"We go get her," he said.

Cam cleared her throat, giving him kind of a look. "Well, some of us might want to get dressed before we do that. Just a suggestion."

"Oh, leave him alone," Angela said, giving him a quick once-over. "You're fine just the way you are, sweetie."

"Easy there, tiger," Hodgins said, rolling his eyes at her.

Which is when Booth realized he was standing dripping wet in his boxer shorts in the middle of the living room. Though honestly, he was a little surprised he'd had the presence of mind to put that much on.

"Why'd you bother with a description of the place if you were just gonna track the call, anyway?" Hodgins asked, obviously trying to change the subject.

Booth grimaced. It wasn't something he wanted to think about, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't have a choice before long. "'Cause if she's actually at one of Mickey's places, there's no way in hell we'll be able to trace that call."

He ran upstairs and put together the best gear he could find for a spur-of-the-second extraction two thousand miles from home – boots and cargo pants, sweatshirt and jacket. Sidearm. Survival knife, strapped to his calf. The phone rang, and he knew who it would be and what they'd say before he even answered.

It was one of those times when he wouldn't have minded being wrong.

When he went downstairs a minute later, he was a lot less gung ho than he had been – sure enough, the number had been blocked. Untraceable. He knew Mickey well enough to know that wasn't something they'd be able to undo, so he wasn't gonna waste time trying.

He'd have to find another way.

"She said there were ferns. And moss,"

Hodgins nodded. "Yeah, and mushrooms. Which would be great, if I had any idea what kind of mushrooms they were. But we're talking Pacific Northwest – there are ferns and moss and mushrooms everywhere."

"But definitely Pacific Northwest, right? She was right when she said Washington?"

He considered, taking a deep breath. Booth waited impatiently, trying to keep from braining the guy. Finally, he nodded.

"Probably. I can't say for sure, but… yeah, I'd say she's probably right. Lots of ferns, moss and mushrooms usually means rainforest. At least, that's what I'm thinking off the top of my head."

Booth nodded. "See, we're getting somewhere. I mean, how big can Washington be, right?"

"About seventy thousand square miles," Tripp said.

Booth sat down. "Seventy thousand," he said, under his breath. He rubbed his forehead, thinking. Took a deep breath, stood again. "Okay, we can do this. Rainforest and mountains in Washington state. Somewhere they can drive to – she didn't say anything about them flying."

"That's good," Sweets said, nodding. "Okay – this is excellent. What else?"

"That's it," Booth said, frustrated. "That's all she said. That's all we've got."

Booth's cell rang – for a second he thought it might be Bones again, but it was a man on the other end of the line.

"Agent Booth?"

It took Booth a second to place the voice, but he figured it out eventually.

"Caleb?"

"Yeah – uh, hi. Doug told me you came around asking some questions this afternoon. He gave me your number."

"Did he tell you what I was looking for?"

There was a pause, before he answered. "Yeah, he did. Listen, the place you're looking for? It's in Diablo – up near the Canadian border, in Washington."

"How do you know that?" Booth asked sharply – maybe he was getting paranoid, but he was pretty sure after Mickey, he was never trusting anyone again.

Except maybe Bones.

"When I was sixteen, I was… Well, I got it in my head that Dr. Phil was a closet psycho. It was just one of those stupid teenage boy things, you know? But… I mean, I didn't actually think it might be true, right? I just wanted an excuse to take my girlfriend out of town, have an adventure, that kind of thing."

"So, you followed him," Booth guessed.

"Yeah – there's this place he's got on the side of a mountain, up in Diablo. Nobody for miles – it's pretty hard to find."

Booth grabbed his jacket, while everyone else just stared at him.

"Did you see anything while you were up there?"

Caleb paused again. "What, you mean like corpses or bone gardens? We didn't go inside, and… Like I said, at the time it was just kid stuff – me trying to get laid, to be honest. I didn't really think…"

Booth nodded. "Yeah, I know. It's not your fault – " his own voice caught on the words, and he saw Sweets watching him. "This stuff just kind of happens. Nobody expects the guy sitting at the dinner table with you to be the monster."

"Thanks," Caleb said, still sounding pretty rough. "I just hope you get him before he hurts anybody else."

Booth nodded. "Yeah. Me too."

* * *

It was still raining. Still cold. She stood outside the house for only a moment, trying to get her bearings, before she set out once more.

Though she was considerably dryer than she'd been just a few moments before, she was still shivering. The dry clothes wouldn't matter, though – she recognized the symptoms her body was exhibiting, knowing very well that she'd gone into shock. Her breathing was rapid, she felt nauseas and disoriented, her pulse was erratic. Shock, when untreated, leads to cell death and organ failure – Brennan knew these things.

She would die.

She thought of Booth again. Russ and Max and Angela and Hodgins, of Parker and her work and the places she hadn't been, the places she wanted to revisit. Booth told her to find the highest ground she could – that meant the next peak, looming high above the house.

She kept going.

She was well into the forest, the smell of damp earth and endless rain strong around her, when she heard someone shout from the house. Her heart rate accelerating yet again, she stood still – certain that she'd been spotted.

"Temperance!" Mickey called, from the bedroom window she'd just left open. She watched him from the woods, repulsed by the smile on his face.

"I know you're out there, Tempe. Don't worry, babe – we'll find you."

He shut the bedroom window and disappeared, back inside the house. Brennan took a breath, then another. Tried to slow her breathing, calm herself. Clutched the knife in her hand, and set out once more.

On a quest for higher ground

* * *

Booth called Washington the second he got off the phone with Caleb. He paced around the kitchen, trying to think of the things he'd need once he had Bones – dry clothes, maybe one of those crappy granola bars she liked so much. Water, First Aid, sidearm, satellite phone…

"I need search and rescue in a place called Diablo. Now."

"Wait," Washington said, a catch in his voice. "From who? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure – Caleb Murray called, he followed Taylor up there once. This is the place." Booth held still for a second, closing his eyes. This was it – years of training in the field, years of following hunches that hadn't panned out and ones that had, and he knew when something was real and when it wasn't. "This is it, I'm telling you. We're getting these sons of bitches today, Alex – are you coming?"

A long pause, before the other agent said anything. "Hell, yeah," he finally managed.

Booth hung up and looked at the group, feeling kind of like he was back picking teams in gym class as a kid. He skipped over just about everyone, stopping at Tripp.

"Listen – I know it's a lot to ask, but with the whole guide thing and the medical background, you think I can persuade you to come along?"

Tripp nodded without a second's hesitation. "Yeah, of course. I'll grab my stuff." He and Cam exchanged a glance, and he added, "I'll be fine," like it was an afterthought, nothing to worry about.

She gave him a little smile, but Booth could tell she wasn't quite so sure. "Damn straight you will – just go get the girl, no playing soldier of fortune along the way."

Tripp grinned, rolled his eyes. "You sure know how to ruin a guy's fun."

Booth hesitated a second, surveying the room. "Wendell, you up for it?"

The man looked a little shaky at the thought, actually. "Me? Uh – you mean, like in a helicopter? Like, in the air?"

"What's the matter, you don't like to fly?" he asked, barely paying attention to the conversation.

Sweets piped up. "Wendell has a fear of flying – I had to prescribe anti-anxiety medication to get him on the plane out here."

"It's not a fear, okay?" Wendell said, sounding a little peeved. "My family just – we always took cars, if we wanted to go someplace. I'm more of a car guy, you know?"

Booth shrugged off the information. "Okay – not a problem. We've got Tripp, Washington, me and the cops – we're covered."

"What about me?" Hodgins asked. "I'm definitely coming – "

Booth held up his hand. "Sorry – nope, not on your life. You've got a kid on the way, you're staying right here."

The whole room went quiet.

Hodgins looked at Booth like he'd just started speaking in tongues, then stared at Angela.

"I'm sorry – I have a what on the where?"

"Oh," Booth said. Angela was giving him a definite death glare. "You didn't tell him yet, I guess."

"Thanks, Booth," she said.

"Wait, can we get back to the part where I have a… kid. On the way. Like…" He looked at Angela, his eyes as big as dinner plates.

"A baby. I'm pregnant," she said, already glowing.

Cam's eyebrows climbed a little higher on her forehead. "Wow – did _not _see that coming."

Hodgins took a breath, and then another one, and sat down.

"Okay – uh, nobody panic. Except – you shouldn't have flown out here, right? I mean… you're not supposed to be pregnant on a plane, everybody knows that." He thought for a second. Stood up and started pacing. "You know what? It's probably okay – and I'll just hire a car, drive us back to D.C. when we're through here." He shook his head. "And we're gonna need to childproof, like… Everything. The mansion? Oh my god, do you know how many outlets there are in the guesthouse alone?"

"Relax, Jack," Booth said. "Your kid's the size of a lima bean – you can probably hold off a month or two."

Hodgins nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right." He sat back down. Then stood back up, looking at Angela seriously. "So, you're… I mean, you're okay with this? I mean, you know, with _us_?"

Which was pretty much everyone's cue to leave, but Booth stuck around another second, anyway. He could use a happy ending, right about now.

Angela nodded, her eyes shining. "Yeah," she said, sniffling. "Yeah, I am. Jack – we're having a baby."

Booth wiped away a stray tear himself, which he chalked up to the fact that he was exhausted and concussed and the love of his life was wandering around in a rainforest somewhere with a psychotic killer after her.

"All right," he clapped his hands, effectively ending the moment. "So, it's official – no squints in the field."

Sweets gave him a look. To his obvious surprise, Booth just nodded.

"Come on, I can actually use you for a change," Booth told him.

Sweets looked like he'd just scored the winning touchdown. "Seriously? I can come?"

"You're staying back, all right? You do everything I say, no questions asked. You're here for one thing, and that's it."

"Of course, of course," Sweets agreed. "No question."

They'd barely made it out the door, into the wind and the rain and the cold, before he was regretting his decision.

"So," Sweets said. "I should probably have a gun for this, right?"

He gave him a look, and Sweets went quiet. Booth took a deep breath, squared his shoulders. Looked at the men behind him, thinking of the guys he'd led to battle before. Thinking of Mickey, and the only way this was gonna go down. There was no question in his mind: one of them wouldn't come out of this alive.

"All right, guys – let's go find my partner and bring her home."

* * *

The rain made it virtually impossible to get a solid hold on anything. Entire pieces of the mountain came down every time she grabbed hold of a branch or a root to try and pull herself up, clods of mud caked in her hair and on her clothes, stuck under her torn fingernails and in her mouth. It was getting dark – she'd called Booth at four, but she'd been in the woods for a long time since then.

At least, it felt like a long time.

She dreamed that she was in Peru – didn't dream it, of course, because she was awake. Imagined. Hallucinated. Pretended? She was climbing Machu Pichu, the way she had a dozen times before. As a child, she'd always longed for these adventures.

There was wildlife in the forest. Snakes – she didn't see any, but she imagined them there. Her mother used to laugh at her, Temperance and her childish games.

_You have the wildest imagination of any scientist I know, _she used to say. _With the exception of your father, of course. _

In an effort to slow her fall when another piece of the mountain came loose, Brennan had lacerated her hand grabbing for a branch that, it turned out, was covered in thorns. Now, every time she put her hand on another rock or tree limb, she left it streaked with blood. If she were carrying a blood-borne virus of some kind, she would have contaminated the entire mountain by now.

_You're doing great, _Booth told her.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not," she told him. "I'm cold, dehydrated. Hallucinating. I should have listened to you."

_Well, yeah. _He appeared to like the idea. _But when's that ever happened? You'll be okay. I'll be there before you know it._

She was hanging at an approximate ninety degree angle, her arms shaking from the effort of holding on. Another few feet up and there was an overhang, but for now she hung out in the open, lacking any coverage should someone decide to look up at that moment.

She heard a voice call from below, and she found that she couldn't tell if it was real or she was simply hallucinating again.

"Temperance! You know, there are easier ways to do this."

It was Mickey – which was likely not a hallucination. He was laughing, too – toying with her, the way he'd been toying with her for hours. Days. Weeks. He fired a shot that knocked a clod of soil loose just above her, starting an avalanche. She screamed, fell a few feet. Managed to find a foothold, and scrambled up higher.

She reached the overhang and pulled herself up. Sat crouched in the shelter the mountain provided, breathing hard.

"I don't think I can do this," she said, tears starting. She was certain she'd never been this tired.

Her raincoat had torn. She was drenched, again.

_You can do it, Bones, _Booth whispered. She closed her eyes, picturing his face. _Come on, babe. Not much farther now._

Her legs were trembling, but she stood regardless. Kept close to the face of the mountain, and searched for the next foothold.

* * *

They were in the air within half an hour of Booth's conversation with Caleb. Tripp and Washington were both quiet – Washington sitting there with a gun clenched in his hand, a distant look in his eye. Booth honestly hated looking at the guy, hated being near him. Because he knew the truth - knew that if Bones was carrying his kid and something like this happened, there was no question: he'd _be _that guy.

Sweets looked everyone over, kind of studying them in that way he did. And yeah, it still drove Booth crazy, but not in quite the same way it used to.

"Do you mind if I make an observation?" Sweets asked, once they'd been in the air for about half an hour.

Booth gave him a look. "Can I stop you?"

Sweets kind of smiled at that, but it didn't slow him down any. He waited a second, getting serious before he said his piece.

"I've been thinking a great deal about the dynamic between you and your friend Mickey – the rivalry that you perhaps never recognized, because you're – "

Booth glared at him, tensing up. "Is this gonna help me find Bones? 'Cause if it isn't, I'm not interested."

Sweets nodded quickly. "Of course – I understand. But what may be relevant to this operation is the fact that someone – presumably Mickey – delivered Farnham's heart to your doorstep mere hours _before _your departure."

"Meaning?" Booth asked, not liking the direction this was headed.

"Meaning, I believe Mickey wanted you to be here for this. Do you really think it was mere coincidence that your ex-Army buddy just happened to fixate on Dr. Brennan, out of all the women in the world? Statistically, that seems highly improbable."

"If you're saying this is my fault, I kind of already got that," Booth ground out. "But thanks for pointing it out."

"No," Sweets said quickly. He leaned forward in his seat. It was loud in the 'copter, so they were all yelling to be heard – he waited until he had Booth's full attention before he said anything more, looking him square in the eye.

"This isn't your fault, Booth. There's nothing you could have done to stop this, I'm sure of it. But what I'm trying to say here, is that Mickey delivered the heart to your door knowing that it would keep you here. He drugged you rather than killing you last night."

"So, what are you saying?" Booth asked impatiently. "That he wants me here so he can torture me? Make me pay? For what, exactly?"

Sweets looked at him knowingly – a little too knowingly for his taste, to be honest.

"I suspect you're the only one who can answer that question. But, yes – I think he wants you to suffer, the way he's made Agent Washington suffer. He clearly has a deep-seated issue with authority, with men who he perceives as more successful than himself. He does everything he can to strip away that success, make them less than him."

Washington looked up, clearly not comfortable being included in the conversation. Sweets kept right on going, which wasn't all that surprising to Booth.

"Agent Washington was undoubtedly quite dogged when he was first assigned the Lady Killer case. He's an attractive, intelligent, competent man with obvious physical prowess, in love with a beautiful woman who was very much in love with him."

"And that pissed him off," Washington said. "Great. And you're sure it's Mickey? The harmless, not-too-bright guy I get to do all my shit jobs for the Bureau." He took a breath, looking away from them. Booth saw his hands start shaking, and got that low-down, uneasy feeling all over again.

Booth nodded, not stopping for a second's thought. "Not a doubt in my mind." He hesitated, thinking of the thing that bothered him more than anything else about all this. Looked at Sweets, but he made sure Washington was paying attention when he said it.

"I was the one who sent him Bones's book, you know?" he asked, his voice sounding kind of rough. He shook his head, wishing to God he could go back in time. "He's probably still got a copy – I wrote in it, told him Bones was my partner. Said something about how I thought Andy Listor was really me."

Sweets was staring at him the way Hodgins looked at a bug under a microscope. "Booth, this is not your fault," he said, for the second time that night. "You were proud of your partner's accomplishments, naturally wanted to share some of that with someone who had once been very close to you. There's no way that you could have known – "

"I know that, all right?" Booth cut him off. "But I was bragging," he said, the frustration bleeding through. "I mean – that's what it was really about, wasn't it? Me, rubbing his face in it. I didn't want to make the guy feel bad, I just…"

"Seeley," Tripp said, all of a sudden. He shrugged. "Give yourself a break, huh? We're gonna find her. And you being an asshole about Brennan's book didn't push Mickey over the edge." He knocked his knee against Booth's, gave him a grin. "Can we give the ego a rest? The universe doesn't actually revolve around every little thing you do, my friend."

Booth actually laughed – it sounded a little stressed out, but it still felt good. He took a shaky breath, grateful for the reality check.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I guess that's true."

Sweets gave him an approving nod, but Washington just sat there. Staring at the floor with that look that made Booth believe, somehow, that nothing about this was gonna end well.

Not a damned thing.

* * *

They simply walked up the mountain. Brennan found a tree and climbed about ten feet up, slipping and bleeding and hallucinating the entire way, and watched as Mickey and Dr. Taylor followed a trail up the side of the mountain. As if there was nothing to it. They both carried rifles, both wore camouflage raingear. She sought the branches with the best coverage possible, clinging to the trunk, and waited.

Nestled in the branches, she dreamed that she was back in D.C., working on a case at the Jeffersonian with Zack assisting her. They catalogued remains in silence, the way they used to back before she decided she wanted to be in the field, wanted more excitement, wanted… more, really, than the lab could offer her. But in the dream, it was just her and Zack. And the bones.

She came to and the world seemed grayer, less sharply defined. Loss of consciousness meant her system was beginning to fail her – cells were dying at too fast a rate, her body forced to metabolize anaerobically rather than aerobically, because she was not taking in enough oxygen to function properly. Extended periods of anaerobic metabolism altered pH levels, causing blood cell walls to weaken and die. Causing _her _to weaken, and die.

She focused on the two men, walking closer now.

They were arguing – she could tell by the way they were positioned, by Dr. Taylor's vigorous gestures and defensive stance. He was clearly more upset than Mickey.

They came closer.

The tree had been the wrong choice, she realized. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea – she would be removed from them, just watch them pass her by. If she were a primate, she could simply leap from one tree to the next. Be gone, up to the top of the mountain in no time at all. Booth would take her home, and she would be safe. Except, of course, they couldn't make love again – because she was a primate. Although physiologically there were enough similarities between the –

She stopped herself.

Focus on being still.

They were directly beneath her now, arguing. If they looked up, she was dead. If she made a sound, she was dead.

She stayed quiet, taking shallow, shaky breaths.

"I still don't know how you let this happen," Dr. Taylor said. His voice was raised – he was clearly very upset.

She heard Mickey laugh. "Will you relax? This is the fun part – this is what makes it all worthwhile. I told you she'd be worth it."

"And I suppose letting her get to my cabin – letting her get to the phone, that was part of the plan as well?"

There was a pause. They stopped walking just a few feet beyond her tree.

"Ssh," she heard Mickey say. "She's close. I can feel her. Don't you worry about my plan – I told you, your phone's safe. No way to trace a thing. Seeley'll get here, but he'll get here when I tell him to. Alone."

Brennan heard the words and that little spark of hope she'd had when she was talking to Booth sank. Dematerialized. Or vanished – which was impossible. Nothing just vanished. Matter transformed into alternate states, it didn't disappear.

But hope wasn't matter, it was merely emotion.

Booth would come. He would see the trap, he would know how to get around it.

They would be safe.

"You know, it's your vendettas that will ultimately be our undoing," Dr. Taylor said, his voice rising again. "Washington, Booth – the notes you've sent, the games you've played. I managed to work undetected for – "

Brennan knew what was about to happen before it actually did – she could see it in the way Mickey was standing, the tension in his shoulders just before he sprang. He had a knife in his hand that he'd had concealed in his sleeve. In one smooth motion, he grabbed Dr. Taylor by the throat and stabbed him in the torso repeatedly. Stopping after a moment or two, he let the older man slide to the wet ground.

Brennan held her breath, shaking that much harder now. She gripped the branch tighter, crying silently.

"Ssshh," Mickey repeated, more quietly now. "She's close. No more talking."

He walked away, farther up the path. Farther up the mountain. Brennan watched him from her vantage point, then turned her attention to the body of Dr. Taylor, his blood already coloring the rain-soaked earth.

* * *

There were twenty-seven summits in or around Diablo – once they finally reached the area, it took a solid hour before Booth spotted the house Caleb had described, set high on Razorback Mountain.

It was almost nine o'clock – long past the time Booth had promised Bones he'd be there to get her. Dark outside, winds gusting, the rain coming down so hard that only two pilots had been cleared to fly, despite Booth's request for more helicopters to search the area.

Booth was on the edge of his seat, staring into the black night with that feeling in his gut again, that kind of dread that just wouldn't let go.

"There's no way we're gonna find her out here tonight," the pilot yelled back at him, for about the tenth time since they'd hit the area.

Booth just shook his head. "We'll find her – just keep going. The house is there, she can't be far. One more time around."

The guy grudgingly agreed. Booth sat closer to the window, all but pressing his face to the glass.

"Give me a signal – come on, Bones," he whispered, not even realizing he was saying the words out loud. "I know you're out there."

A strong gust hit the 'copter and knocked it sideways, so hard that just about everyone inside lost their seats – Sweets looked like he was about to lose his lunch, as well. Once they were back on course, the pilot called back over his shoulder again.

"All right – that's it, we're calling it quits. The rain's supposed to clear early tomorrow, we'll hit it first thing."

"Are you kidding me?" Booth shouted. "She'll never make it through the night – you can't just leave her out there."

The medic who'd been sitting quietly in the back through most of this kind of nodded – though he at least had the decency to look sorry about it.

"He's right – we can't risk other people's lives. We'll have to wait."

Booth shook his head, already grabbing his gear. "Then set me down, and I'll find her myself."

Sweets looked at him like he'd just sprouted a third head. "Are you crazy? Didn't you hear what I said earlier – this could be a trap. He's waiting for you down there, this has probably been his plan all along."

"So he just created the storm out of thin air so I'd have to come after Bones alone?" Booth asked, his voice tight.

"Of course not," Sweets returned, his own voice rising. "But I do think he has an endgame in mind, and it revolves around manipulating you through Dr. Brennan."

"Well, then, he's winning," Booth shouted. He tapped the pilot on the arm. "Set me down as close to the house as you can get me. I'll handle it from there."

Tripp gave him a look. "This seems like a bad idea."

Booth shook his head. "Not to me it doesn't. Seems like a great idea to me – I've got a gun, I've got good boots and dry clothes. That's a hell of a lot more than Bones's got."

Washington grabbed his bag, and Booth stared at him for a second. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going," Washington said shortly. "You can try and stop me if you want to, but it'd just be a waste of time."

Booth didn't even bother, just nodded. "Let's go, then."

* * *

It got dark. She stayed in the tree for a while, sleeping occasionally, situating herself with her legs wrapped around the trunk and her hands tight around the branches so that she wouldn't fall.

She dreamed that she was cold. That she was a child. That she was locked in a trunk, and when she woke she was no longer cold and she knew, somewhere far off, that not being cold was a bad sign. She was feverish, delirious, and every so often Booth would come to her. He would stand on a branch in plain view, scoffing at gravity, and smile at her.

_I'm almost there, _he said.

Time and again.

The last time he appeared, she cried when he left. She dreamed a snake that seemed very real, slithering through the branches, and she screamed and woke and began slowly climbing down.

Slowly, because she had to hide.

She just couldn't seem to remember why.

Her eyes stung.

When she reached the ground, she fell and landed in moss and ferns. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. The last time she'd been dry.

How long had she been here?

There was a body, not far from her – Dr. Philip Taylor, she reminded herself. He'd been stabbed, which was why she was hiding. He still had his flesh, however, so it wasn't her concern.

She would wait for his bones.

She'd just managed to get to her feet when she saw the lights and heard the roar of thunder. She dove for cover and only realized a few moments later that it hadn't been thunder at all.

It was Booth.

A helicopter. Search and rescue.

She reached into her sodden cargo pants and pulled out the flares she'd taken from Mickey's car. The helicopter flew by again – if she set the flares and Mickey spotted them first, wouldn't he get to her?

Perhaps he'd gone home.

On one of the cartoons Booth watched, there was an obese, crudely drawn child.

_Screw you guys, I'm goin' home_, he would say.

Booth laughed, every time the child said it. She pointed out that adolescent obesity and the plethora of health problems that went along with it were no laughing matter.

_Bones, it's funny, okay? Just trust me on this one._

The last time they watched it, she found herself laughing along with him.

She set the flares, and then climbed back up the tree. Held onto her knife. If Booth came, she would leave her tree.

If Mickey came, she would not.

She waited, but then the helicopter vanished.

Dematerialized.

Disappeared.

She watched it fly away, and lay her head back against the strong, familiar tree trunk.

She closed her eyes.

A moment later, she opened them again. Mickey smiled at her from his position, just a foot below her in the tree, a gun pointed at her.

"Come on, Temperance. Let's go wait for your boyfriend," he said.

* * *

Tripp and Sweets wanted to come along, but Booth told them both to stay put. It had been one thing when he thought they'd get here, find her, maybe deal with a little drizzle along the way. But this was a fucking monsoon – and going to war in a monsoon was no business for civilians.

So, it was the two of them: Booth and Washington. Washington still made him nervous as hell, but he knew there was no way the agent would ever agree to stay back. Besides, if anyone deserved to be there when the final shot sounded, it was Washington. The chopper let them down on a flat piece about two hundred yards from Taylor's house, and Booth hoped to God the lunatic saw them coming, and was shaking in his boots.

And that he didn't have Bones.

The mountain was a mess – by all accounts, the past week had been freak weather throughout the Pacific Northwest, turning what was usually prime tourist season into a crappy blend of high winds and early mudslide season that had pissed everyone off. Booth took the lead, with Washington following along behind with his gun drawn and a kind of dazed way about him. Every so often, the agent would look at him, and Booth couldn't help thinking that Washington wasn't long for this world. In fact, it kind of seemed like he'd already left it.

They'd been walking for a good hour, trying to track Bones, but most of the signs she would've left had been washed away. They were soaked through, and all he could think about was how cold she must be, how exhausted. How long she'd been waiting for him.

They found a trail leading up the mountain from the house, and started following that – mostly just to get to higher ground, see what they could see from below, but about half a mile up, Booth saw the light.

Literally.

Two flares, set in a clearing surrounded by trees and ferns and moss and mushrooms.

He knew it could be a trap – he looked at Washington, and they slowed down on the path, all but washed out now and almost impossible to follow.

"You see that?" Booth asked Washington, squinting through the rain.

Two flares, and then, about ten yards beyond, a body.

There was a second when everything turned to mud in his brain, and he had to physically slow things down, walk himself through the actual act of breathing in and out.

It wasn't Bones – even from where he was standing, he could tell it wasn't Bones. A few steps closer, and he realized that it was Phil Taylor.

Booth looked at Washington again. The agent was standing there with his gun raised, staring at the dead body of the man who was at least partially responsible for the death of his lover and his kid. Booth thought for a second, before he put his hands to his mouth and shouted.

"Bones! Booo-ones," he called, drawing the name out loud and long. "Paladin, Bones. P – A – L – L – A – D – I – N. You hear that, Bones? You got me?"

And then, in an instant, everything slowed to a crawl, became incredibly, beautifully clear. This was the way it always was, before the fight – Booth had been here enough times to know that. The rain coming down, his gun pointed into the night, no movement in any direction. Nothing but his heartbeat, the uneven rhythm of his breath.

He saw Washington cock his gun, study him – he knew. Kind of smiled.

"What gave me away?" the agent asked numbly, his eyes unfocused.

Booth looked around – trying to figure out where she was, where Mickey was. No sign of anyone, just him and Washington.

"You never knew any of the victims except Anna, until Maddie Banks got taken three months ago," Booth said, keeping his tone kind of casual. "And then, all of a sudden, you started getting maps in the mail. Started turning up dead bodies left and right. I figured maybe you guys worked out a deal."

"I didn't know who they were," he said, and Booth believed him. "You have any idea how many times I've had Mickey help me out with something? And it was him, all along. You came here and they just started crawling out of the woodwork, but I searched for years. I didn't know it was him."

Booth nodded. "And then he changed the rules of the game – gave you Maddie's name _before _they'd actually taken her. So, you followed orders and brought them a live body, and all of a sudden you were making some progress."

Washington studied him, his eyes different now – still crazy, but a different kind of crazy. He believed he was right, Booth realized. That it was all worth it, in the end.

"Two bodies in exchange for twelve, and a shot at breaking the case wide open. Getting rid of these bastards for good. They would've stopped, once they had your partner. Mickey, at least, would've stopped."

Booth fought to stay in control, rage climbing his spine like hot iron until he couldn't even breathe, let alone shoot. "And then last night you came to our place – came in, knocked out Bones, drove her away while Mickey took care of Angela and me."

Washington looked genuinely sorry at that, got that broken, dead look to his eyes again. "Two women for twelve – or more. I had no idea how long they'd keep going."

Booth heard something rustling close by, and called out. "P – A – L – L – A – D – I – N, Bones," he repeated, praying she'd get it.

And then, her voice – he felt a surge of relieve and a knee-buckling wash of terror, all at once.

"It's a trap, Booth. He's here! He's waiting for you!" she yelled, from somewhere off to his right.

There was a scuffle behind some trees, and a second later she was there. Covered in rain and mud and looking just a little beyond half-dead, but still alive.

With Mickey's arm around her throat and the barrel of his gun aimed at her temple.

"You know, this was supposed to go a hell of a lot smoother," Mickey said. He looked half-drowned himself, his nose probably broken and a batshit crazy look in his eyes.

Washington hesitated, looking from Mickey to Booth and back again, unmistakable loathing in his eyes.

"He's here," he said to Mickey. "I got him here, just like you asked. I held up my end of the bargain. Now tell me where she is." His voice broke, the light already gone out in his eyes. Washington trained his gun on Mickey, but Booth wasn't counting on the agent making the shot – not in his state, not with Bones acting as a human shield while the rain poured down and the wind blew harder.

Booth's finger was on the trigger. Washington looked at him, and he could tell the man didn't think he'd do it.

Neither did Mickey.

He changed direction in a split second, though, and hit Washington twice in the chest, without hesitation. Perfect shots. The agent's eyes registered shock and then that fast flutter of pain, and he dropped.

Mickey smiled at him. "Always a surprise, Seel. That's what we love about you, isn't it, Tempe?" he asked, running his knuckle along Bones's cheek. "And now, it's just the three of us."

Bones had flinched when Booth fired off the shots – her eyes went wide, and she looked at him differently, for just a second. He couldn't really explain the change – it wasn't fear, exactly, but it wasn't respect either. Understanding, maybe, but he didn't like that she had to understand this kind of shit.

Booth took a step closer to them. He let his gun drop to his side, but still held on.

"How long have you been at this, Mick?' he asked – partly to keep him talking, but partly because he honestly had to know.

Mickey grinned. "A while now. You'd be amazed what a soldier can get away with, in a third-world whorehouse with a pocket full of cash."

Booth felt that baseball bat to the gut again. Fought to keep his knees under him.

"Paraguay," Booth said.

"Paraguay," Mickey agreed. "You were pretty far gone that night, Seel – impressionable young thing like you, it was easy to make you believe we were the victims."

Booth took another step closer. Bones was shaking – he could tell, even from where he was standing. There was a cut on her forehead, and she was white as a ghost.

"And Artie?" Booth asked.

Mickey shrugged. "Another casualty of war – the nice man with the machete wasn't happy about being interrupted."

Booth nodded, taking all of this in and tucking it as far back in his head as possible. He'd pull it out again later, he knew – a thousand times, going over all the ways it could have happened differently, all the things he should have seen.

All the ways he could have stopped this.

For now, though, he let his mind go blank. Focused on Bones, only a few feet from him now. Focused on the night, the shot, the ways this could end.

"So, why don't you just let her go, and we can do this thing?" Booth asked. "It's been about this all along, right? All this dancing, all this build up, just so you'd have me out here with nothing."

Mickey laughed, still playing with him. "Oh, I want you with less than nothing – where's the fun otherwise?" Booth saw his finger stroke the trigger, leaning in to nuzzle Bones's ear. Whispering something to her, and she leaned her head away as far as possible, whispered something back that Booth had never heard from her before.

"Fuck you," she said, her voice scraped raw. She didn't look anywhere near Booth when she said it.

Mickey laughed harder at this, kissed her on the cheek. She struggled against him, kicking him in the shin, but he didn't even flinch. He just held on tighter, and dug the barrel of the gun into her temple.

"Easy, Tempe," Mickey said. "Not yet. Wait 'til we're home. I wanna get you out of these wet clothes first."

Booth's trigger finger itched, his jaw tensed. _One shot, one shot, one shot. _

"Drop your gun, Seel," Mickey said, shifting his attention back to him once Bones had stopped fighting. "Let's get on with the show."

Booth swallowed hard, going over his options. He hesitated a second, taking in their positions, the direction of the wind, the driving rain. Bones's right fist was clenched tight, something silver catching the light every once in a while. If he could buy another minute or two…

"Answer one more question," Booth said.

A little, cocky smile from Mickey. "Suddenly I'm fascinating, huh, Seel?" He shook his head. "Ah, the irony. One more – then we'll go back to the house and have a little fun."

"Where are the bodies?" he asked.

Mickey hesitated – it wasn't the question he'd expected. Booth held his breath, waiting for him to answer. Trying to keep his attention.

Another second, and he shrugged. "Phil wanted to hang onto them – we added the ladies to his collection. Scrape the surface of this mountain and she bleeds red, Seeley." He hesitated, his eyes hardening all of a sudden.

"Now – no more questions, Seel. Sorry, I'm bored. Drop the gun."

Booth nodded, trying to keep him from getting pissed off. He put the safety back on and laid his gun on the ground. Kept his eyes on Mickey, careful not to look away, not to telegraph anything, and put his hands up.

"See that, Mick? You've got all the cards."

Mickey eased up on his own gun, taking his finger off the trigger with an oily smile.

"See how easy that was?" He leaned in and kissed Bones's neck. She flinched, but she didn't fight. "Good girl," he breathed, loud enough for Booth to hear it. Booth clenched his fists, biding his time.

Mickey took a couple steps forward, forcing Bones with him, and Booth waited until he had her eye. The world faded away for just a second, until it was just the two of them – she caught the look, and held it. Nodded, so slight that only Booth could have caught the gesture, and with one incredible surge, she slammed her head to the side, catching Mickey completely off guard. She buried the blade she'd had clenched in her hand, into his thigh just as deep as it would go, and wrestled herself free.

His gun was just coming up when the shot sounded.

Washington fired from only a few feet away, his jacket torn and two bullets lodged in his Kevlar vest. The shot hit Mickey in the back of the head, just once. Booth watched the shock register on Mickey's face, saw him fall to his knees. Go down in a heap.

He didn't move again.

Washington kept his gun raised for just a second, before he dropped his arm. Stared at the body, and then turned around without a word and vanished into the night.

* * *

She couldn't seem to move. Or breathe. Still so cold, the feel of Mickey's arms around her and the rain and his hands, his lips at her ear.

"Come on, baby, let's show your boy how it's done," he whispered, and Booth was talking to her only he wasn't, of course, only his eyes were. Just his eyes. She had a knife in her hand, she hit him with her head and she saw stars – not literally, just white light – and then stabbed him with her knife, and she ordered her body to function on muscle memory alone. And then his arms loosened and there was thunder and a body and she was on the ground again.

On the ground, the wet ground.

Except Booth was there.

"It's okay, Bones – you're gonna be all right, baby."

He had a phone – a satellite phone, he called someone out of the sky and she'd been in his arms when the light came closer. Not the series of chemical reactions producing the highly misunderstood white light signaling brain death – she was not dead. This was a real light, from the sky.

She was so cold.

But she was alive.

"I want us to get a dog, someday," she whispered to Booth – it seemed, suddenly, very important.

Booth stared at her, not understanding. He was crying. Or it was raining. Both, she suspected.

"A dog," she repeated, louder, but it still only came out as a whisper. He got the furrow in his brow, while Tripp, inexplicably enough, descended from the sky and strapped her into the basket that would bring her to the helicopter that would bring her to the hospital.

"Let's go to Rome," she told Booth, her eyes fluttering closed.

"Just take it easy, baby," he said, and she thought again of just how much she should hate that. "Don't try to talk right now."

She smiled. "Screw you guys," she said. "I'm going home." And laughed.

* * *

She awoke two days later in the hospital, with Booth's head resting on her stomach. There were lights, and noises. And Booth, with a bandage on his head. Her entire body ached, and she was fairly certain her skin was on fire. She ran the back of her hand over his cheek, feeling stubble there. He woke up. Looked at her, and blinked.

"Are you awake?" he asked.

She managed a smile. "I appear to be," she croaked.

He sat up and called the nurse. Who called the doctor. Who came in and poked and prodded at her, while Booth hovered nearby looking virtually apoplectic.

"So, she's gonna be okay, right?" he finally asked, once the doctor had finished going over everything with her. "I mean – no permanent damage or anything. She's… she's okay?"

She rolled her eyes. "Booth, I'm fine. Cuts and bruises. My ankle is really the only injury of any severity, and it will heal. I'll be in a cast for a few weeks… That's all."

"But what about the fever?" He asked. "And the being unconscious for two days? I mean…" he took a deep breath, looking back at the doctor. "You're sure she'll be okay?"

"She'll be fine," the doctor assured him one more time. "Her liver and kidney function are normal, blood pressure is right back where it should be… She's a tough cookie."

The doctor winked at Booth, which seemed exceedingly patronizing to Brennan, but her partner breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"That's good. That's really, really good."

They gave her medication for the pain and medication to sleep, and a few minutes later she was alone in the room with Booth again. He sat beside her, brushing the hair back from her forehead in a gesture she found extremely soothing.

"I'm so sorry, Bones. I wouldn't blame you if you never talked to me again, forget the two of us – "

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because, Bones," he rolled his eyes, as though she was being intentionally dense. "Mickey was my friend, right? I mean, hell, I'm the guy who gave him your book."

"But haven't you given my book to other people, as well?" she asked, clearly missing the point. Sometimes she was honestly mystified by his logic.

"Well, yeah – dozens of 'em, as a matter of fact."

She raised an eyebrow. "And I suspect based on my sales, that many other people have given my book as gifts as well."

"Right," Booth conceded. "But they didn't know the guy the book was written about – "

She rolled her eyes. It really did always seem to come to this. "Booth – Andy Listor is a fictional character. My books have nothing to do with you, or me. Mickey was clearly deranged – that was hardly your fault."

Booth nodded, though he didn't seem convinced. There were hospital smells and hospital sounds, none of which seemed consequential when she considered the fact that she was still alive. They were still alive. She reached for his hand. Met his eye, and didn't waiver.

"Thank you for coming for me," she said, her voice catching.

He took her hand and held on tightly, kissing her knuckles. "Thanks for waiting for me," he said.

She closed her eyes. Booth started to get up, but she opened her eyes the instant he was on his feet.

"Can you stay – until I'm asleep, I mean?"

He grinned. "Of course, Bones. Where the hell am I gonna go, I'm on the wrong coast. I was just gonna try to find a pillow – I'll end up squishing your insides if I keep sleeping like I was. And it's not exactly good for the back, either."

She pushed over to the other side of the bed, petting the side. He kicked off his shoes and lay down beside her, stretching his arm out so that she could rest her head on his shoulder.

This time when she closed her eyes, she had no trouble falling asleep.

* * *

"But you always spell Paladin wrong," Brennan insisted, not clear on how she could be blamed for not reading such an ambiguous warning.

It was day three in Portland Presbyterian Hospital – she was to be discharged the next day. Everyone from the Jeffersonian would be leaving on a flight that evening, but for now, it seemed, the hospital room was spilling over with her co-workers.

Booth was in a chair beside her bed, while everyone else stood in a semi-circle around her. Booth rolled his eyes in exasperation, though she could tell he wasn't actually that exasperated.

"Bones, it was brilliant, okay – Washington knew the word, Mickey knew the word, I didn't want to tip them off that I knew, but I wanted _you _to know."

She sighed. "But I already knew," she said. "I knew it was a trap before you did, because Mickey got me as soon as I set the flares. He was just waiting for me to signal you."

"Well, yeah, but how the hell was I supposed to know that?" Booth asked. "Look, all I'm saying here is, it was a brilliant move. If things were different and you hadn't already been captured, it would've saved your life."

"Except I didn't know you were trying to warn me, I just thought you were spelling it wrong. Again."

"Okay, truce," Angela interrupted. "Booth, I'm sure it would have been a totally brilliant strategy."

"Damn right it would've been," he grumbled.

Brennan looked around the room, feeling suddenly grateful for the people in her life.

"Have you been successful at identifying anymore of the remains?" she asked, addressing the room in general, though her gaze was focused on Cam.

She nodded, and Brennan didn't miss the glance her supervisor gave Booth. "We have – we've identified sixteen bodies so far. Twelve more are a mystery, and six of those have been there at least twenty years."

True to Mickey's words, an excavation team had unearthed an entire graveyard behind Philip Taylor's house.

"Was Anna George among them?" she asked. Everyone looked uncomfortable, but eventually Cam nodded.

"She was, along with another six women apparently killed by Mickey," Cam said. Tripp put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him for a moment with a sigh. "It's a lot of bodies."

"But Washington must feel some sense of relief," Brennan said. "Or… closure, perhaps." She couldn't honestly imagine _how _Washington felt, but she found she didn't have the heart to despise him, despite everything he'd done.

Booth was watching her closely, until she finally looked at him. "What happened to Washington?" she asked quietly. Booth got the same look every time the agent's name was mentioned, and everyone became conspicuously quiet about the subject the moment it came up.

"He killed himself, Bones," he said. "After he left us that night – he went back to Phil Taylor's place and dug up the back until he found the graves, and then, once he knew he'd found Anna, he shot himself." Booth cleared his throat. "He uh- he left instructions, for what he wants done with the remains."

She closed her eyes, felt the world swimming around her. She'd known, of course – it certainly wasn't a surprise, based on his behavior. Based on the look on his face that night, the desperation in his eyes.

"Agent Booth asked me to come along with search and rescue that night, in order to evaluate Agent Washington," Sweets said. His tone was serious, his eyes downcast. "I've seen individuals like this before – in my experience, it's very difficult to bring them back when they're as broken as Alex was."

She turned to Booth, studying him. Thinking of his actions that night, the way the entire operation seemed to flow so smoothly.

"Did you plan all of it?" she asked her partner. "Making him wear the Kevlar so that you could ultimately shoot him, and make Mickey believe he was dead?"

Booth shook his head. "That's giving me a little too much credit, Bones. We both had on the Kevlar, kind of a given on a search and destroy op like we were on. I just saw the chance, and thought maybe, if I played it right, it might work. And then once he was down, I figured all I needed to do was find out where the bodies were, and the first thing he'd do was take out Mickey."

"Very shrewd," Sweets said. "It demonstrates an excellent understanding of the human psyche and the mechanisms of grief."

Hodgins nodded. "Not to mention being a pretty kick-ass way to save your girlfriend." The women in the room turned on him, and he raised his hands in surrender. "Not that Dr. Brennan is anyone's girlfriend. Or… needs to be saved."

Angela rolled her eyes. "Smooth, Jack. Very smooth." She paused, looking troubled for a moment before she finally spoke. "So, that morning when everything happened… Who was it? Obviously, Mickey was there, but was Dr. Taylor or Agent Washington the other guy in black?"

Brennan looked at Booth, who nodded. They'd already discussed this part, comparing notes between one another's experiences to fill in the blanks.

"It was Agent Washington. As far as I can tell, Dr. Taylor wanted no part of Mickey's vendetta," Brennan said.

"So, Mickey overrides the security system and gets inside. He unlocks the door, Washington comes in next," Booth said, growing increasingly pensive as he gave the details of Mickey's plan. "Mickey goes to Angela's room first, doses her, ties her up, tosses her in the closet."

She watched as Hodgins took Angela's hand, kissing her knuckles as Booth continued to recount the rest of the story.

"By this time, Bones is up – she goes downstairs, and Washington's there waiting. He takes her down, while Mickey waits for me to get up, so he can kick my ass. Then Washington drives her out to the middle of nowhere, switches cars, and leaves Bones there 'til Mickey can pick her up and drive the rest of the way up to Diablo."

"And Caleb calling with the information about Dr. Taylor's hideaway?" Hodgins asked. "What was that about? Don't tell me the kid was in on it, too."

"That," Booth smiled. "Is what I like to call a little divine intervention. You put something out there, somebody's gonna hear your prayers."

"It wasn't really divine," Brennan pointed out. "I'm sure you were fairly intimidating, with your bandaged head and your tendency to become somewhat aggressive whenever you feel I'm in danger. You asked several people the right questions, and eventually you got the answers you'd been seeking."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Tomato, tomahto, Bones. I'm sticking with divine intervention. Your skinny, slacker TA saved our asses – from here on out, the damned kid's an angel in my eyes."

"So," Cam said. "I assume Mickey wasn't expecting you to actually find the place on your own."

Brennan shook her head. "Washington was supposed to bring Booth that night, alone. We're not entirely clear how he was planning to do that, but… we believe that was the intent."

"And if he had, I would've spelled Paladin wrong, and it would've saved the day," Booth said, quirking an eyebrow at her.

Brennan rolled her eyes, but everyone else laughed appreciatively. They continued to laugh and chatter, but she slowly withdrew from the conversations – feeling tired, more uneasy than she liked. Her level of anxiety had definitely increased since the day on the mountain – she felt stressed every time Booth left the room, but when he returned she found herself feeling inexplicably claustrophobic.

Sweets cautioned them both that their emotions might be running high over the next few weeks, that they might experience unexpected bouts of grief, anger, or anxiety. He'd told them not to push themselves, to be patient, lower their expectations of themselves and each other.

All of which, naturally, Booth had dismissed as psycho-babble, an assessment Brennan had willingly accepted.

But now, as she watched Booth usher her friends out the door before she faced her last night in the hospital before returning home with Booth, she found she wasn't quite so certain.

* * *

Bones got out of the hospital on Friday afternoon. Everyone from the Jeffersonian had gone back to D.C. the night before, but Booth was happy to come back and find the place filled with balloons and flowers, streamers and 'Welcome (almost) home' signs. Bones was on crutches, but she got pissy with him every time he tried to help her with anything - then got pissy with herself when she couldn't do things the way she thought she should be able to.

It had only been a few days, but he didn't know what to say to her. They actually talked about the Lady Killer case a lot – the number of bodies found, where they'd found them, whether he thought there were more buried somewhere else. He asked her if she was okay too much, which drove her up the wall. Hovered, and could feel himself doing it – then overcompensated by staying too far away, and watched the way her face got that kind of panicked look when she thought he'd left.

Her first night home, he helped her with a shower. Put a plastic bag over her cast so it wouldn't get wet, and helped her get undressed. She was covered with cuts and bruises, some worse than others. He made the mistake of looking away once when he caught a glimpse of an ugly bruise on her thigh – just once, but he could tell how much it bothered her. Like he'd turned away from her, not what had happened. He didn't look away again.

He got undressed, noting that he had a few cuts and bruises himself. It was the first time they'd been alone – naked alone, at least – since she'd been taken, and he felt weird, kind of shy about being there. Like it was the first time, all over again.

He started the water, and helped her sit down in the little shower seat where he'd first tasted her, a week ago that very day. He thought of their first night together, the way she moved and the things she said, the way she looked at him. They'd had one week of making love, and he was sure another hundred years wouldn't be enough. He knelt in the now-familiar shower with the hot water raining down over his back, and ran the washcloth over her cuts and bruises.

"Is this okay?" he asked, at one point when she'd gotten kind of quiet.

She nodded. Closed her eyes, and he felt her start to relax. "It feels good," she said.

He washed the swell of her breasts, the plane of her stomach, her good ankle and her calves and behind her knees.

She breathed in when he ran the washcloth higher up her inner thigh, curled her fingers in his hair.

"Let's go to bed," she said – kind of whispered it, and he was surprised to see that she had tears in her eyes.

They turned off the water, only stopping to rinse off, not even bothering to wash their hair. He wrapped her in a towel, watched her hobble on her broken ankle for a few seconds before he couldn't take it anymore and picked her up. She held onto him, arms around his neck, her eyes on him – like she was trying to figure something out, and he kissed her and felt that dizzy, underwater feeling that he loved about kissing her.

The sun had come out the day after they got off the mountain, and it hadn't stopped shining since. It was dusk outside, barely eight o'clock. At the Llewellyn Estate, just a few blocks over, they were trying to finish up the conference, trying to put a cap on things when they'd just found out the director of the program and his cousin were notorious killers, and their star writer almost got killed by them. At their house, Booth had changed all the locks, worked with Artie on installing a new security system. Still, every time he walked down the hallway toward the stairs, he found himself looking over his shoulders. Just waiting for someone to jump out at him.

They got into bed. Kissed some more, Booth careful at first, so careful, but she pressed his hand to her chest, forced him to up the pressure – not a lot, but a little.

"I won't break, Seeley," she told him.

He cupped her breast in his hand, grazed her nipple with his teeth until she arched into him in that way she did. They lay side by side, her leg draped over his thigh, him pressed to her heat until he rolled over, so that she was on top – knowing that, despite whatever she said, she still had to be sore. She still had cuts and bruises, a broken ankle and a sliced hand. She still had that look in her eye, every time she thought he wasn't around.

She leaned down and kissed him, hard, straddling him. Pressed her tongue into his mouth, rocking her hips against him without actually taking him inside yet. He stopped her with a hand on her hip, positioning himself with the other hand so that he was at her entrance, feeling this near-desperation just before he pressed his hips up, listened to the way she caught her breath and her eyes changed when he filled her. And he'd done it before, he prayed to God he'd do it again, but that second still felt like the first and the last, the beginning and the end, and nothing was better, more right, than the two of them.

He pulled her down to him with a hand at the nape of her neck, loving how warm she was against him. How alive. She kissed him harder, pulled him deeper, whispering his name and then shouting it when she came, her back bowed and her head thrown back – lost, in the best sense of the word.

Another second or two, her walls still closed tight around him, he followed her over. Just like he always had, just like he'd keep doing, for just as long as she'd let him.

Afterward, when they were lying there under the blankets, the tension gone for the moment, she took a deep breath. And he knew, somehow, that he wouldn't like what was coming.

"I think Sweets was wrong."

Booth shifted so he could look at her. Her face was flushed, her hair still damp from their shower. It sounded like a promising way to start things off, but he wasn't sold yet.

"About what, exactly?"

She paused. Bit her lip – never a good sign. "About pushing ourselves – or not pushing ourselves. Because, while I believe we've both clearly been through an extremely stressful situation, I think it would be a mistake to allow ourselves to surrender to whatever insecurities or anxieties have arisen as a result – "

He rolled onto his side so he could see her better. "Bones, slow down. English, right?"

She nodded, still kind of chewing on her lip. "I talked to Jamie today. I'm staying in Portland until Labor Day, as I'd originally agreed."

He felt an all-too-familiar tension run through him. "Bones, that's another two weeks. I can't stay here another two weeks – I'll lose my job. And Parker – "

She nodded. "I know, Booth. You'll go back. I'll stay here."

He stared at her. "You're serious? You'll stay here alone, for another two weeks, after everything that's happened? Just because you…" he stopped, clueless. "You mind telling me why, exactly?"

She got quiet. Ran her finger over his lips, down along the side of his face, and he could tell this wasn't an easy thing for her.

"Since that night," she took a breath. "In the woods, every time you leave the room," she said, still managing to look him in the eye, even though he could tell it was just about killing her. "I feel this… weight, on my solar plexus. As though I'll never be able to take a full breath again." She shivered a little under the blanket, and he pulled her closer. "And then you come back, and I can breathe properly again."

He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. "So, how exactly is me going back to the opposite coast for two weeks gonna help that?"

She started to cry, closing her eyes for a second to try and blink back the tears. "I have to be able to breathe on my own, Booth," she said. "I can't just… fall apart, because you're gone."

"But I'm not going anywhere," he told her, wishing he could figure out a way to make her believe that.

She looked at him. Leaned in, kissed him gently.

"Two weeks – I need to be able to make it two weeks, without being certain someone's waiting for me around every corner. Without feeling as though I need you here to rescue me." She hesitated, studying him now. Trying to see something, read something.

"And I believe you need it, too. You can't take responsibility for my well-being twenty-four hours a day, it's ludicrous. You need to see that I'm all right."

He nodded. Closed his eyes, dreading what he was about to say.

"Okay. But then at the end of the two weeks…?"

"You come back, and help me move home." She hesitated, risked a smile. "You still owe me a weekend… I thought, perhaps, if Rebecca would agree – maybe you could bring Parker with you when you come for Labor Day. I've heard very good things about the Portland zoo, and there are plenty of parks…" She looked down for the first time, like she was almost embarrassed she'd brought it up. "It's probably a bad idea – I understand if you'd rather not."

He wrapped her up in his arms and held on. Whispered in her ear, because he couldn't seem to find a full voice.

"I think it's a good idea, Bones." Kissed her ear, nibbled her earlobe until her breath caught. "I think it's a great idea."

He stopped kissing her long enough to look her in the eye again, dreading what came next.

"So, when is all this supposed to happen? When are you kickin' me to the curb, Bones?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not kicking you to any curb. But I got you a ticket for tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow afternoon?" He groaned. "Bones, you just got out of the damned hospital – you can't get around on your own."

"I can, actually," she leveled a killer glare at him. "And I will. I'll be fine here, and you'll be back in D.C. by tomorrow night – you'll be able to spend Sunday with Parker."

He took a deep breath. Shook his head, but only out of habit – he already knew there was no point in arguing.

Already knew she was right.

"Tomorrow. Okay." He kissed her neck, her collarbone, ran a hand down her back and pulled her closer, until she arched her back and he was hard all over again.

"That means we've got some serious crunch time, before take off."

She laughed – a real laugh this time, no holds barred.

They began again.

TBC

* * *

**_And there we have it... Stay tuned for Wednesday, and the final chapter. Thanks as always for reading and being patient and kind and all the rest, you guys are fabulous. Be sure and let me know your thoughts, for some reason this chapter was a brute! - Jen_**


	15. Chapter 15

_And, at long last, the wait is over. Here we go, kiddies.... The final chapter of the epic Killer in the Classroom - the War and Peace of fanfic. Only in the sense that it's, you know, really really long. I don't claim classic status, merely ridiculous length. Hope you enjoy, it's been one Fabulous ride!_

* * *

The first night was unquestionably the hardest. Booth's flight left just after one – Brennan returned to an empty house and spent the afternoon cleaning and puttering before eventually settling down to work on some of the backlogged cases Cam had sent from the Jeffersonian.

Shortly before dusk, she fell asleep on the sofa. It seemed that within moments of closing her eyes, she was back inside Mickey's trunk, traveling to an undisclosed location with no hope of escape. There was shouting in the distance, her limbs too heavy to defend herself, and the trunk began to fill with ice water. She gasped, trying to keep her head above the water, trying to breathe, but then she felt hands on her shoulders – holding her under while she flailed, desperate for air.

The house was dark when she jerked awake, her own rapid heartbeat thunderous inf her ears. There was no noise inside the house. No trunk, no ice water, no hands holding her down. Two children played outside – she heard their shouts and their laughter as though still in a dream, watching shadows play against the walls of her living room. She was still for a moment, sitting up with her feet back on the floor, forcing herself to breathe.

Just a dream.

Her hands were shaking. "Get a grip, Temperance," she told herself, and felt better once she'd managed to get those few words out.

She hobbled to the kitchen in search of something to eat. Considered calling Booth, but she didn't want him to hear the tremor that she was sure would still be in her voice. Besides which, they'd agreed that he would call her when he got back – there was no reason to change that plan.

She made herself a cup of tea and a veggie burger, and returned to the living room. Turned on all the lights. Re-checked the locks on the doors and windows; made sure the alarm was still armed.

Returned to her work.

As it got darker, however, she found it more difficult to focus – every shadow sent her heart racing, every noise seemed to signal imminent peril. Finally, at ten o'clock, she gave up and returned upstairs. The house felt too quiet, too empty. This was the problem with being in love, she realized: the inevitable moment when he was gone – even if only for a few days – meant that her body was literally de-toxing from the rush of chemicals produced on an ongoing basis while they were together. She realized with an ironic smile that the term 'addicted to love' was far more literal than she'd ever imagined.

She went to the bathroom to prepare for bed, and rolled her eyes at the familiar t-shirt folded neatly by the sink. She'd claimed it early in the week, choosing to sleep in that rather than her own pajamas more often than not (that, of course, was only on the nights when she wore anything at all). Booth didn't seem to mind making the sacrifice, however.

When she opened the medicine cabinet to retrieve her dental floss, she paused for a moment – smiled gently, her eyes tearing at what awaited her: a small, plastic German shepherd sitting on the shelf, its ears perked forward and an expression of rapt attention on its face. She tenderly picked up the dog, and unfolded the note placed beside it.

_This is the best I can do for now. Rome might take a while, but I'll do what I can. _

_Love, Booth_

She smiled. Set the dog next to the sink, where he could stand guard while she flossed and brushed. She was just getting settled in for bed (with the German shepherd sitting on her nightstand) when Booth called.

"Sorry to call so late – you still up?" he asked.

"Of course. Did you just get in?" she lay back on the pillows, feeling suddenly much, much more relaxed.

"Yeah – longest travel day in history. Jesus, I could've walked back to D.C. faster. There were a couple delays, then one of the planes got grounded at the last minute. I almost called you, but I figured…"

She furrowed her brow, curious. "What?" she pressed.

"I didn't want you to think I was, you know, hovering. Only, I guess it'd be hovering long distance. I figured I'd get out of your hair for a while, give you a chance to miss me."

She thought of all the inane things she'd wanted to tell him all day – that the weather was nice again, that the neighbors were having a party, that she wished he'd been there to make pancakes for dinner the way he had the night before.

"Well, it worked," she said.

"Yeah?" he sounded relieved. "That's good. But… you're doing okay though, right? Staying warm, keeping off the foot, not pushing yourself too much. Remember what the doc said – you're not gonna be a hundred percent for a while."

"I'm fine, Booth."

She heard him sigh – she couldn't tell what it meant, though. Possibly still relief, possibly something else. She realized that she suddenly, irrevocably despised telephones. If she never had to speak with Booth on the phone again, it would be too soon.

"I found the gift you left in the medicine cabinet," she said, reaching over to touch her protector on his regal, plastic head. "Thank you."

There was another pause on the line, before Booth finally spoke again.

"You know, I was thinking and… we could get a dog together," he said, sounding slightly awkward. "I mean, you know, if you really wanted one. It'd be kind of nice. I've always wanted a dog."

She wrapped the blankets around her more tightly – ever since the night in the woods, she'd been having a difficult time staying warm. Yet another reason to miss Booth: the man generated a remarkable amount of heat.

"But who would it live with?" she asked, furrowing her brow. "Wouldn't that be difficult, logistically?"

He hesitated. "Well," another lengthy pause. "Not if we lived together. I mean, you know, then if you were off at some writer's conference in Oregon, I could walk him. And when I was out catching bad guys, you could take care of him."

"But I'm frequently with you when you're catching bad guys," she said. Then stopped for a moment, realizing what he'd said.

"You think we should move in together?"

"I don't know – I mean, not next week or anything. We can play it by ear," he said hurriedly. "But I kind of liked playing house with you, Bones."

She thought of washing dishes beside him, arguing over whether to watch television or listen to music, watching him brush his teeth every night. "I liked having you here, too," she finally agreed. "It's much colder without you."

"Hey, Bones, remember what I said? You've gotta stay warm," he said immediately. "You'll be more sensitive to cold for a while – the nurse walked us through this. Stay bundled up, and don't be shy about turning on the heat. It gets chilly there at night."

"Booth, I'm perfectly capable of keeping myself warm. I've been doing it for thirty-two years now."

She could picture him rolling his eyes at her. "I know, Bones. All right? I know. But get used to it – this is me, right? I worry about you. I don't see that changing anytime soon."

They talked for another few minutes before it seemed they were running out of things to say. Brennan watched the clock anxiously, knowing that he must be exhausted. Dreading the moment when he hung up, as the shadows climbed the walls and the wind made everything outside seem distinctly ominous.

"So, I guess I should let you get some sleep," he finally said.

She bit her lip. Hesitated, hating herself for saying anything. After a moment, though, she managed to speak up.

"Do you have to go?" she asked, despising that tell-tale tremor in her voice.

A pause. "Nah, Bones – of course not. No rush. You all set for bed?"

She nodded, which he of course couldn't see. "Yes – I'm in bed."

"All right," he continued, his tone sounding more at ease now. "Lie back, and I'll tell you a bedtime story. You'll be asleep before you know it."

He told her about a princess and a white knight, but when he suggested that the princess was in need of saving, she felt it her duty to set him straight. So, the princess was not in need of saving, and the knight was strong and virile but was fair-minded and very, very environmentally responsible.

"Bones, this is the worst bedtime story I've ever told," Booth griped. "Can't you just let me tell the damned thing my way?"

She pulled the blankets closer around her, unable to contain a smile.

"I like the story. Then what happened?" she pressed.

He sighed. "I don't know, Bones – he can't save her, and you don't like them trying to kill the giant – "

"Individuals who vary from the average either physically or intellectually have always been persecuted – we have no objective evidence that this individual has done anything beyond being slightly taller than the villagers, to earn his unsavory reputation."

Another sigh. "Okay, fine. You know what? The giant was a great guy. The knight was a great guy. The princess was strong, beautiful, and crazy about recycling. They all lived together in the castle – "

"Which they opened up to the peasants, as well, thereby obliterating the oppressive class structure that ultimately would have led to an insurrection within the kingdom…"

"Maybe you should tell the story, huh Bones?" he asked dryly.

She smiled again. "No, you're doing very well. Please continue."

"All right. So – they all lived happily ever after. Lots of recycling, almost no carbon footprint, everybody on equal ground, and basically it was just one big, happy hippie kingdom."

"What about the knight and the princess?" she wanted to know.

"What about 'em, Bones? They're all happy, okay? Everybody's happy."

"And they're together, right?"

She could imagine his eye roll. He'd said he was in bed, as well – she wondered suddenly if he was wearing anything. If he'd showered before calling her. Two weeks suddenly seemed like a very, very long time.

"Yeah, Bones – they're together forever. They get married, they have little royal babies who play with the giant and the unicorn, and…"

She closed her eyes. She knew she should argue over the inequality inherent in the concept of matrimony, particularly in feudal times, but she was so tired.

She yawned.

"You ready for bed now, babe?" he asked, his voice softer now.

"I am. I'll talk to you tomorrow?" Her own voice heavy with sleep, eyes still closed.

"You definitely will. Sleep tight – love you, baby."

"Love you, too," she whispered.

She survived the first night.

* * *

For the next two weeks, Brennan continued with her life, exactly the way she'd intended. Since the writing conference was now over, there were only three-day workshops to teach for the University, which left the rest of her time for her real work. After the remains had been excavated in Diablo, they were transported back to Portland for further study. Brennan assisted the forensic team in identifying the victims, gradually piecing together a story of violence and death dating back more than thirty years.

At the end of her days, she returned to the house on Glisan Street alone. She locked the doors and windows. Set the alarm. Spoke with Booth every night, overwhelmed at times by how strongly she missed him.

Shortly after Booth returned to D.C., a crime unit discovered a safety deposit box in Jason Farnham's name, containing a manuscript that Brennan was quite certain Dr. Taylor had known nothing about. Though she declined the offer to read the manuscript herself, she did have a copy forwarded to Sweets.

The following day – Saturday afternoon, a week after Booth left – Sweets called her. She saw his name on her caller ID and honestly couldn't decide whether she wanted to hear what he had to say or not.

She answered, regardless.

"Dr. Brennan, I have Agent Booth here with me – I wanted him to be here when we spoke. I debated simply waiting until you'd returned to D.C. so we could speak in person, but of course – "

"Just tell me, Sweets," she said, unable to hide her exasperation. "Clearly, there are things you've learned."

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want, Bones," Booth said – his tone anxious. She could picture him leaning forward in his seat, irritated with Sweets for calling in the first place.

She rolled her eyes against a familiar surge of emotion. "No – it's all right. I want to know."

Sweets took a breath. "Well, it's essentially what we thought – Farnham's manuscript states that Taylor showed a proclivity for violence at an early age, gradually escalating from the torture of small animals to humans by the time he was in his early twenties. Eventually, he purchased the house in Diablo to carry on with his… well, work is the word Farnham uses."

She closed her eyes. Thought of the saw blades on the walls, the concrete floor, the workbench. All the things her panicked, delirium-addled mind had transformed into a love of woodworking.

"Farnham's narcissistic nature ensures that he casts himself in the lead role in the novel, of course – the sensitive, misunderstood writer who unwittingly becomes co-conspirator with his deranged cousin, wooed to the dark side through violence and secrecy and the sting of rejection."

"But what does he say specifically?" she asked impatiently. "I don't care about motive, I want to know what his involvement was. What does he say about Rachel Martin?"

Sweets sighed. "Right – sorry to bore you with the completely irrelevant, psychological aspects of the case."

"That's all right," she reassured him. "Just try to focus on the evidence. Who killed Rachel Martin?"

"They all did, Bones," Booth said. "Right, Sweets?"

"Based on the profiles I've compiled, and the manuscript Farnham left, I would say that's accurate – though technically, Taylor was ultimately the one who strangled the women. Since strangulation is the official cause of death, I suppose he was the actual killer. But Farnham was the one who initially chose the victims. He assumed an alternate identity, often working for months to get to know the victim's schedules, gain their trust."

"So, the women knew him," Booth continued, picking up where Sweets left off. "He'd go up to them in the parking lot or whatever, and… then what? Mickey'd jump out? Or Taylor?"

"No, I don't believe so," Sweets replied. "The manuscript, again, paints Farnham as a hapless victim, but I believe he was the one who actually surprised the women and struck the first blow – the one that rendered them unconscious. He would then steal the victim's car, and take them to the house in Diablo."

"So, who the hell left the notes?" Booth interrupted again.

"If you could just wait a moment," Sweets said, clearly becoming agitated. "I'm getting to that. According to the manuscript, the notes were Farnham's contribution."

"But Dr. Taylor was arguing with Mickey about them," Brennan said, puzzled. She thought back to the night, trying to push the panic the memory inspired aside as she recalled the conversation she'd heard, just before Dr. Taylor was killed. "He said Mickey would be the one to compromise the operation, because of the notes and his vendettas against Washington and Booth."

"I believe Mickey used the notes to taunt Washington – initially, they were meant to be akin to love notes from Farnham to the victims. Mickey was the one who turned them into something else entirely," Sweets explained. "There was an intense rivalry between Farnham and Mickey – he brought the women to Taylor's place in Diablo, and was extremely conflicted – "

"Well, gee, I don't know why," Booth said dryly. "He hands them over, and then takes off so Mickey can do…" she heard him sigh. "Jesus, what the hell is wrong with people?"

"Farnham wasn't actually conflicted by that, actually," Sweets said. "He had severe issues with women sexually – during the killings, he would actually stay behind, and describes in…" for the first time, Sweets sounded somewhat shaken. "Disturbingly graphic detail, the confrontations between Mickey and the women. Farnham watched them play out, using Mickey as a surrogate to act out the things he wanted to do but was unable. He became highly aroused watching both Mickey and, later, Dr. Taylor's torture of the victims."

Brennan closed her eyes, feeling suddenly ill. There was silence on the other line for some time, before Booth spoke.

"Temperance – you okay?"

She nodded. "I'm fine, Booth," though she knew she didn't sound fine.

"Dr. Brennan, I can only imagine the horror and revulsion you must be feeling right now, but you have to know that whatever emotions you're experiencing are completely natural."

She leaned back on the sofa, thinking once more of the night in the woods, the way it might have ended. She closed her eyes, willing herself to continue on, until all her questions were answered.

"So, Mickey killed Farnham?" she guessed.

"Yes," Sweets said. "Though I don't know with any certainty, of course, but I believe so. When Farnham began participating in this circle, it was because of a genuine fascination with the women they victimized. Mickey pointed him in your direction, Dr. Brennan, knowing that he would fixate on you, just as he had the others. Mickey was, of course, obsessed with Dr. Brennan in his own way – but that obsession stemmed from his original fixation on Agent Booth."

"But why?" Booth asked, something raw, troubling in his tone. "Why would he do that? I mean… I've gone over it about a million times, and I can't think of a damned thing I did to the guy. We… I thought we were friends. I mean, hell – we served together, fought side by side, and I never saw a fuckin' thing."

"That's true," Brennan said. "Booth is usually highly perceptive about people, and yet he was completely fooled by Mickey." It wasn't the first time she'd had the thought, despite how much she attempted to ignore it.

"Because Mickey was a master manipulator," Sweets said, without hesitation. "It has nothing to do with how perceptive Agent Booth is – this man spent his life creating a façade that no one could see through. He had a diabolical understanding of human psychology, and used that understanding against the people around him at every turn."

"But why?" Brennan demanded, her tone more intent than she would have liked. "Why would anyone do that?"

"I thought motive didn't matter, Dr. Brennan," Sweets said quietly.

She shook her head, brushing away still more tears. It seemed, lately, that they would never run dry.

"They don't," she agreed, struggling to regain control.

"The hell they don't," Booth said roughly. "If they don't matter to you, they sure as hell matter to me. So, why, Sweets?"

There was a lengthy pause on the line, before Sweets finally admitted. "We don't know. I don't know his background – no one seems to, even Agent Booth. Farnham doesn't speak of Mickey in anything but present terms, offering only speculation as to where the man might have come from and what he did prior to his partnership with Dr. Taylor. There's no reference to his childhood, though I would certainly suspect extreme physical and emotional abuse at an early age. But that's only speculation."

She felt suddenly, irrevocably exhausted. Booth and Sweets continued to debate amongst themselves for a few minutes, apparently not noticing that she had withdrawn from the conversation. Finally, after some time, Booth interrupted another of Sweets's diatribes.

"Bones – you still there?"

"I am," she said. "I'm fine," she told him, before he could ask again. "I'm a bit tired, though. Do you mind if we finish the conversation another day?"

"Of course," Sweets said quickly. "But please feel free to call if I can be of any assistance. Anything at all, Dr. Brennan."

She nodded. "I will. Thank you."

"I'll give you a call tonight, okay?" Booth asked.

"I'll talk to you then," she agreed.

She hung up. Sat quietly on the sofa for a very long time, gazing at the walking cast that would be on her foot for the next month. The wall that, not so long ago, was covered with macabre photos of death – now with a fresh coat of paint and the same Ansel Adams print that had been there when she first arrived. The new carpet to replace the bloodstained one where she had fallen.

There were things she would never understand – it was the reason she loved bones. Their mysteries were intricate and timeless, but nevertheless easily quantifiable. People were not that way, no matter how much she wished they were. She didn't understand how people had faith in an entity they could neither see nor hear; how, despite rampant overpopulation and a planet clearly suffering from its effects, parents dared to bring children into a world so deeply flawed; how couples met and fell in love and dared to whisper 'forever' when the concept was completely illogical.

And most of all, she could not understand how men like Mickey walked the planet, taking pleasure in inflicting pain wherever they went. How was it possible for a man like that to share the same genetic make-up as a man like Booth? How could they even be the same species? And how could Booth have been so completely fooled, all those years?

She closed her eyes again, pushing the thoughts away.

She got out her laptop, and began working on more cases from the Jeffersonian. Lost herself to the bones, and was grateful, at least, for that.

That evening, just as she was preparing to stop work in order to have dinner, Sweets called again. She was tempted to ignore the call, but curiosity got the better of her – she answered while staring into the refrigerator, trying to decide what – if anything – she felt like eating.

"I just called to see how you're doing," Sweets said.

"I'm fine," she responded, wondering just how many times she would need to say those words before people began to believe her.

"Yeah – I know you're fine. Okay – honestly, that's not the real reason I called, that was just a transparent excuse."

"Oh," she said, surprised. "What was the real reason you called?"

He sighed. "Agent Booth, actually," he said. "I'm concerned because he seems to blame himself for what happened to you. For not figuring out that it was Mickey – for not seeing through him."

"He does?" she asked, immediately concerned. "I mean – technically, it's true that he didn't see through Mickey, and he spent years with him. But I don't _blame _him for Mickey taking me." She hesitated, chewing her lip for a moment before she spoke. "Just – it seems as though he should have known. Doesn't it? That is, after all, what he does."

"Well, that's true," Sweets agreed. Another pause. "Huh. I guess I never really thought of it that way – I mean, this is Booth's area, right? You do bones, he does people. If someone brought you a bone with some huge flaw or… injury, or something, and you missed it, Booth would probably be all over you. If you can't rely on him to hold up his end of the partnership the same way you're expected to hold up yours, then…" He scoffed. "I mean, missing a psycho like Mickey? That's _huge – _how does anyone miss that?"

"Well," Brennan hesitated, not liking Sweets's tone. "He did fool a number of other people besides Booth," she offered.

"Well, yeah," Sweets countered. "But this is _Booth – _he should know. Shouldn't he? He's supposed to be infallible."

"No one's infallible," she countered, becoming increasingly irritated.

"Well, Booth's supposed to be pretty close. And he handed you over to Kenton, and Mickey now – I mean, maybe you're right. It turns out Booth is actually pretty crappy at this whole reading-people thing."

She furrowed her brow, instantly on the defensive. "He's very good at his job," she insisted. "Booth has seen through countless criminals, he has a better understanding of people than anyone I know. Kenton had been on the take for years and no one knew, and Mickey was a master at deceiving people. It was Booth who figured out that Washington was part of it, he was the one who played Mickey in the end… He would have done anything to get me back safely."

She stopped short.

"Oh," she said softly. She tilted her head slightly, scowling. "That was a psychological trick."

"Did it work?" Sweets asked.

"Does he really think I blame him?"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan, he does," Sweets said without hesitation. "And I understand your reasons for staying in Portland alone, but in his mind, I believe Agent Booth sees this as a reaction to what happened, and the ways in which he failed you."

"Oh." She said again. She paused, thinking about this for a few moments before she sighed. "I have to go," she said, without elaborating further. She hung up, calling Booth the moment the line was clear.

He answered after only one ring. "Hey – you okay, Bones? I know that conversation earlier – "

"What Mickey did wasn't your fault," she said instantly.

There was a pause on the line. "Uh – yeah, Bones, I know."

"And it's not your fault that you didn't see it – no one could have. Sweets says you blame yourself, and you think I blame you as well."

Another pause. "Sweets said that, huh?" he asked, clearly angry.

"Do you think I blame you?" she pressed. "Do you think that's why I made you leave?"

A very, very long silence followed. Interminable. Finally, he cleared his throat. Sighed, sounding very tired. "I don't know, Bones – isn't it? I mean… I could hardly blame you, if it was. First Kenton, now this. I'm supposed to be able to see this stuff – "

"But you _couldn't_ see this," she interrupted. "There was no way _to_ see it. I made you leave because if I didn't, I was afraid that I would never regain what I lost that day." A tear spilled down her cheek, followed by another, as she struggled for the right words. "I would never again get that feeling when I saw you – that… joy, at spending the night with you, because I would be too panicked at the prospect of what would happen if you left. I need to know that being with you is a choice – for both of us. Not simply because you feel guilty or sorry for me, or I'm afraid I can't take care of myself."

She was rambling, she realized. He was silent again.

"Booth – say something. I want you in my life. What happened wasn't your fault."

She brushed at her tears, waiting for him to respond. Finally, she heard him sniffle on the other end of the line.

"You know I love you more than my belt buckle – right, Bones?" he asked, his voice somehow at once rough and tender. "You get that?"

"I know," she said. Smiled, closing her eyes. Relieved beyond words. "I get that, Booth."

* * *

In the midst of all of the drama, there was still, inevitably, the mundane details of her day-to-day existence. Brennan got up, did the exercises the physical therapist had recommended for her ankle, showered, got dressed. She identified remains, wandered Portland as much as she was able, taught the workshops. She had been paired with Jamie for the remaining two weeks at the Llewellyn's, which came as a great relief.

Teaching with Jamie was an entirely different experience than it had been with Farnham or Lethem (though she really hadn't had an opportunity to evaluate Lethem fairly, she realized). The tone of the classes was entirely different – casual but respectful, light and honestly quite fun. Jamie was unique in how instructive she was with each individual's manuscript – pinpointing problem areas and providing options for repairing them in a way that Brennan genuinely admired. Caleb continued working as a teaching assistant, and – despite Booth's insistence that the couple would not last – he and Jamie were actually quite charming together.

Wednesday afternoon, just two days before Booth and Parker were to descend on the West Coast, the sun was shining overhead, and the Llewellyn lawn was rife with activity. Brennan had just finished workshops and was preparing to hobble home – despite the doctor's insistence that she limit her activity, she'd found her walking cast was more than able to carry her the few blocks to and from the house – when she noted a man coming toward her. He was tall and well-built – too well-built, actually, and she found herself tensing. Evaluating him for potential weaknesses, her heart rate speeding perceptibly.

He smiled when he caught her eye, but she didn't return the smile, glancing around to make sure that she was still in full view of others in the area. TJ and Caleb were seated on the front steps – she caught their eye, and realized that both of them were watching the man's progress closely. She took a breath, attempting to reassure herself. She was safe.

"My name is Justin Parks – I used to work with Rachel Martin," he told her, a few steps before they actually reached one another.

She stopped moving, crossing her arms over her chest. Standing on the lawn with her heart beating frantically, she forced herself to hold her ground. She waited for him to continue.

"Doug Murray suggested I get in touch with you – he said you're looking for Abby?"

She just stood there for a moment, trying to find her voice. Since Booth had returned to D.C., he'd been looking into the matter of Abby's whereabouts, while she pursued leads in Portland. She had to admit, however, that since her abduction, she hadn't been looking as actively as she should.

She nodded, finally finding words. "Do you have information about her?"

He smiled slightly, his posture relaxing now that she was actively engaged in the conversation.

"I do, actually – have information, I mean. And a phone number. I told her you wanted to talk to her – she said it'd be okay, if you want to call."

She hesitated. TJ was getting up from the steps – she looked over and shook her head at him, indicating that she was fine. Returned her gaze to the man – Justin – with a frown.

"Do you have any identification – a driver's license, perhaps? I'd just like to verify – " she tried to inject confidence into her tone, hoping she didn't sound as small as she suddenly felt. He nodded quickly, giving her a glance that seemed too kind to be pity, but was dangerously close.

"Of course – I'm sorry. I should have offered." He took his driver's license from his wallet and handed it to her. She took a moment, refusing to be rushed, before she nodded and handed it back.

"Thank you." Someone else would apologize or explain, she supposed, but she did not.

"You said you know where she is?" she prompted him.

He nodded. "Yeah – we kept in touch after – " he dropped his eyes for a moment, swallowed, then returned his gaze to her. "After Rachel was taken. Still keep in touch, as a matter of fact. She's up in Seattle – second-year pre-med at Seattle Pacific."

"Second year? But isn't she – she's barely eighteen, is she?"

"Barely," he confirmed, looking unmistakably proud. "She had herself emancipated from the state when she was sixteen – graduated early, got into college on her own. She's a pretty smart cookie. She goes by Abby Reardon now – Rachel's maiden name."

Something about the way he was discussing the girl suggested to Brennan that he knew her quite intimately.

"You said Doug told you – why would he tell my partner and me that he didn't know where she was?"

He hesitated a moment, before he finally shrugged. "We're a little protective of her, I guess – she changed her name to get away from the publicity, does everything she can to keep a low profile. But Doug told me you were looking, and Abby saw your story in the papers, so…" He handed her a scrap of paper.

"That's her cell – she's coming down tonight to spend the long weekend with my wife and me. Maybe you two can grab some coffee or something."

She wasn't sure what to say, still caught by a single fact. "She's alive, then?" she asked stupidly – as though there was some other way for her to be in her second year pre-med in Seattle.

He smiled once more, and she noted that he did have what were universally referred to (somewhat ambiguously) as kind eyes. Light, open, a multitude of laugh lines at the corners.

"Oh, yeah – Abby's still alive. A little stuck in her head, kind of out of touch with the real world, but… Yeah. Abby's still alive, Dr. Brennan."

* * *

The next afternoon, Brennan met Abby Martin at Bay Leaf, a vegetarian restaurant in Southeast Portland that the girl had suggested when they spoke on the phone the night before. Inside, the walls were a soothing, pale green, with bamboo accents and deep, dark wooden benches. It was three o'clock – too early for dinner, too late for lunch, so the place was virtually empty. Brennan scanned the patrons, until she found the girl she imagined was Abby.

She was already seated at a booth. Brennan watched her for a moment – taking in the long, dark hair tied back in a disheveled braid, the baggy overalls she wore over a dark red t-shirt. She was small, perhaps a bit too thin, seated sideways on the bench with one leg draped across, the other bent with her chin resting on her knee. The table was laden with textbooks, and she chewed absently on a pencil while she read.

Abby didn't even realize Brennan was there, until she limped over and stood there for a moment.

Once the girl did realize, she stood quickly – a flash of anxiety touching her gray eyes before she recovered, extending her hand.

"You must be Dr. Brennan?"

Brennan nodded, taken aback by how strongly she was affected by the girl's presence.

"I am," she nodded. "And you're Abby Mar – "

"Reardon," Abby said quickly, glancing around. She lowered her voice, offering an apologetic smile. "After my mother's body was discovered last month, the name's been more in the papers again. And with everything they just found in Diablo…" She shrugged. "It's better to use Reardon, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Brennan agreed. She glanced at the table, gesturing toward the other seat. "Do you mind if I…?" she asked.

Abby looked uncertain as to what she might be referring to for a moment, before comprehension finally reigned. She blushed, quickly piling her books back into a threadbare backpack that didn't look like it could handle the burden. But then, neither did Abby.

"Of course – yeah, please, sit. Sorry, I'm a little clueless. Caught up in studying, I guess." She rolled her eyes, still appearing embarrassed. "I get a little distracted – Justin says someday I'm gonna get hit by a bus, and I'll be too oblivious to bleed."

Brennan laughed at this. She sat down. "I can be that way myself, at times." She paused, uncertain how to proceed. "What are you studying?"

"Pathogenic Bacteriology and Immunology. It's an advanced course – I was lucky to get in, so I'm trying to get a jump on things. You go into this stuff at my age, and people have expectations – " she shrugged. "You know, that I'm some prodigy or something. But since I'm not…"

"You work harder to make it appear that you are," Brennan guessed.

She nodded. "I mean – it's not like I'm an idiot. I certainly have a respectable IQ – I just wasn't memorizing Gray's Anatomy or composing operettas when I was five."

There was a lengthy silence at the table, interrupted when an elderly Asian woman came over to take their order. Once she had gone, Abby took a moment before she looked at Brennan intently – studying her.

"So, Justin said you were looking for me. I read about everything that happened to you – the men who did it." She paused, her eyes suddenly seeming much older. "I appreciate you catching them – finding them, the way you did. It feels better, knowing that everything's, you know… over, I guess."

"They found me more than I found them," Brennan said. "But… Either way, they won't hurt anyone else."

"And you really stayed out there that whole time – with your broken foot and everything? That story was true?" she asked, eyeing Brennan curiously.

"It was exaggerated," Brennan said quickly. "The break was minor – it could have been much worse."

"But you stayed alive," Abby said. Her eyes filled with tears, and she brushed them away quickly – looking appalled at the display of emotion. "I'm sorry, sorry – God," she rolled her eyes. "I'm usually a lot better at…"

"Compartmentalizing?" Brennan guessed, studying the girl with a smile.

Abby considered the word for a moment. "That's not what I would have said, but… yeah, I suppose that's accurate." She cleared her throat. "But anyway… Here we are. And – I mean, Justin said you were looking, so… Was there something you wanted? I mean, besides an awkward vegetarian lunch?"

Brennan laughed at this, surprising herself. She hadn't actually thought this far ahead – was there something she wanted? She had so many questions. She just wasn't certain where to begin.

"I just… I wanted to make sure you were all right," she finally said. "They told me that you weren't." she trailed off, and Abby looked at her curiously.

"Who told you that?"

"Agent Washington. The one who…"

Abby nodded, and Brennan was relieved that she wouldn't have to explain any further.

"Yeah, I read about him. So… What, he told you I was sick or something?"

"That you hadn't survived, actually – " Brennan paused, not sure how to explain any of it. How much to say or what was relevant because, suddenly, none of it seemed that important.

"It doesn't matter, really. You're obviously all right." She hesitated. "Justin seems very nice – it's good that you were able to stay in touch, after everything that happened."

The girl smiled, growing thoughtful. "Yeah, Justin's kind of like my… well, I don't believe in angels or anything. But he's a good person to have in your corner. I was in foster care for a while, but…"

"It's harder when you come from a good home," Brennan said quietly. "I mean, I suppose it's hard for everyone, but when you come from a strong family and you're suddenly…"

Abby studied her for a moment, tilting her head slightly to the side – as though evaluating her. "You're suddenly with these people who could never be like your parents, can't hold a candle to them, really, and some of them are trying to be nice and some of them really _are _nice, and some of them are just plain nuts…"

"But none of them are yours," Brennan completed for her. "It's never _your _home, never your family."

Abby nodded again. "How long were you in?"

"My parents disappeared when I was fifteen," she said, holding Abby's gaze because it suddenly seemed safe, seemed the only thing to do. "My father resurfaced a few years ago, but my mother died shortly after they left. I was in until I aged out."

"I got a bad family when I was fifteen – a real doozy, you know the kind?" she asked, her eyes skating from Brennan's until she caught the older woman's understanding nod.

"I do," Brennan said simply.

"Yeah," Abby rolled her eyes. "So… Poor Justin had just gotten married, but he and his wife took me in for a while. He helped me get my paperwork together and go through the emancipation hearings."

"Well, you've clearly done well on your own," Brennan said sincerely.

"I could've done worse," Abby agreed. "I had some really good years, for a while there – I mean, you know, before my mom died." Her eyes filled, and she brushed away the tears again, impatiently. Abby's hair was in her eyes, and Brennan noticed a stain on her t-shirt that she was sure the girl was oblivious to. "That's better than most of the kids I met got – most of them never stood a chance. But I got twelve birthdays with a mom who was there at 12:06 every November 16th to tell me all the gory details of how I almost killed her coming into this world." She laughed, brushing away more tears. "Do you have kids?" she asked.

Brennan shook her head.

Abby nodded. "I figured not – it sounds like you have a pretty busy life. If you ever do, though, that whole birth story? It sounds nice, but it's a little disgusting. If you do anything like that, you should definitely gloss over the most horrific parts."

They both laughed at this, Brennan nodding – thinking suddenly of a little girl with Booth's brown eyes, curled up beside them in bed. Of a pregnant belly and tender breasts, of Booth watching in wonder as their child grew. She shook her head, quickly putting the thought at the very, very back of her mind.

She spent another two hours at the restaurant with Abby, discussing school and Brennan's work, Abby's years in foster care and subsequent emancipation, and a host of other topics. At the end of their time together, Brennan hesitated before she finally broached the subject she'd wanted to discuss.

"I wanted to talk to you about your tuition," she plunged in. "You said you share a small apartment in Seattle, and you work in addition to a full course load, which is very difficult. And I've written these books, so I'm fairly well off…"

And just like that, Abby's eyes darkened. "Thank you, but I'm fine," she said, almost coldly. "I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for a while now."

Her tone was civil, and she even managed a smile, but clearly something had changed between them.

"I didn't mean to suggest you couldn't," Brennan said, taken aback. "I just thought I could help."

"You caught the man who killed my mother," Abby said – quieter now, returning to her previous tone. "That's more than enough. I'm okay."

Brennan nodded. Took out her card, and handed it to the girl. "I can see that. But if you ever need anything – even if it's just to talk, please don't hesitate."

The girl took her card, nodding thoughtfully. "Thank you. I…" she hesitated, as though what she was about to say somehow cost her something. "I really do appreciate it."

Brennan waited a moment, watching as Abby Martin/Reardon walked out the door and across the parking lot. Barely bothering to check for oncoming traffic, she crossed the street and vanished once more, from Brennan's life.

* * *

The next day, Brennan found she could barely sit still for the final workshop. She was scheduled to pick up Booth and Parker at the airport at 3:30 – she'd spent days practicing driving with her cast on, not wanting the first thing Parker saw in Oregon to be the inside of a cab. She'd selected a variety of age-appropriate activities to choose from over the course of the weekend, filled the refrigerator with nutritious snacks, and purchased a new set of sheets featuring a life-sized, animated talking sponge who seemed to be quite popular with children Parker's age. Despite all of this, she found herself undeniably nervous about how the weekend would go, knowing how important it was to Booth that she and Parker got along well.

The last workshop was honestly absurd – critiques had been completed the day before, so it was essentially just yet another excuse for a party. Jamie brought in plates and paper cups, party hats and an endless supply of alcohol. TJ and the Llewellyns and several of the other faculty joined them, and it was remarkably festive considering all that had transpired over the course of the month.

TJ raised his glass shortly before she was scheduled to leave, looking at her with a rakish grin.

"So, beautiful – it's your last chance. You can dump that loser from the Feds, spend the rest of your life chained to a lecherous ne'er-do-well who'll write you sonnets for the rest of your days."

Jamie laughed, rolling her eyes at Brennan. "Don't listen to him, T – he loves to play the martyr, but the man's got the world by the tail. Why don't you tell her how your life's _really _going, Teej."

Brennan's eyes widened uneasily – more lies? Caleb rushed in, apparently noting the effect Jamie's words were having.

"The real story, as in – he's not such a loser as we thought," Caleb clarified. "Lethem's publisher just signed our boy here to a three-book deal."

She grinned, shaking her head in amazement. "Seriously?" The grin quickly vanished, however, as she looked from one face to the next. "Wait – is this a joke? Or does he really have a publishing contract?"

"No joke, Temperance," TJ said. "Which I can call you, now that we're officially peers. David's coming in this weekend to celebrate, which means you can expect us on your doorstep at dawn Sunday morning."

Brennan wasn't sure whether she or Caleb were more horrified at this news. "Booth's bringing his son this weekend," she said quickly.

Jamie held up her hand. "Relax, T – I promise, we won't do that to you again. God knows, you've suffered enough at the hands of U of O faculty this time out – no more torture."

Brennan sighed, managing a smile. "That's good. I don't think I could take that much more."

TJ nodded. He caught her eye, looking wistful for just a moment. A second passed, then another, before she went over and shook his hand warmly. He laughed, shaking his head incredulously.

"You're shaking my hand? I don't even get a hug – or at least a kiss on the cheek?"

Physical proximity with everyone but Booth seemed to be something of an issue ever since that night on the mountain, but Brennan took a deep breath. Took the necessary step to close the distance between them, and hugged him quickly. He kissed her cheek.

"Thanks, Temperance," he whispered, with a sad smile. "And I'm serious – if things don't work out…"

She nodded, but was careful to return to a more appropriate distance promptly. "I know. I'll remember," she returned, also keeping her voice low. Then, she took in those around them, and raised her voice to include the room, giving him a knowing smile. "Now that you have the contract, perhaps you and Addie could celebrate."

His eyes widened innocently. "I'm sure I don't have a clue what you mean."

"So, I suppose you haven't been having a sexual relationship with her all summer while you declared your undying love to me, then?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

She was really quite pleased with herself, once the laughter had faded. Caleb tipped a glass in her direction, nodding respectfully.

"Well played, Dr. Brennan. Well played."

* * *

Driving a manual transmission Prius whilst wearing a bulky cast was not something Brennan would ever recommend to anyone who hoped to live a long life. And yet, it seemed, she did somehow manage to get to the airport without a scratch. Slightly late, slightly disheveled, irrevocably anxious. She'd changed outfits twice, finally settling on a skirt that was provocative enough for Booth without being inappropriate for Parker, and a red blouse that she knew Booth liked.

She walked through the sliding glass doors of PDX's lower level at 3:40, and surveyed the madness – the Friday before Labor Day weekend, and it seemed there were quite a few people who'd decided to vacation in Portland this year. She scanned the series of escalators, walked the length of baggage claim, read the monitors indicating flight delays. Booth's flight was listed as on time, but she didn't see him anywhere. Despite the progress she'd made over the past couple of weeks, she still found herself quite anxious in crowds; still avoided meeting strangers' gazes, still found that her heart sped up and she began to perspire when people got too close. She swallowed past all of this, however, and continued searching.

She was about to give up and start checking the gates on the upper levels, when she heard a familiar voice shout, "Bones," and something small and very solid tackle her from behind.

She turned to find Parker grinning up at her. She was surprised at how little reserve he showed at their greeting, noting that – as she'd requested – Booth had instructed him to call her Bones, rather than the almost absurdly formal Dr. Brennan. It simply didn't seem right, she'd explained to Booth – who had seemed only too happy to make the change.

Parker still wore an orange cast on his arm, which he waved enthusiastically as he described their flight. His father was still several paces behind him, his grin widening as he got closer, though he stopped before he actually reached her.

"Did you know you get free peanuts on airplanes, Bones?" Parker asked her.

She nodded. "I did know that, actually."

"But you have to pay for the food, and Dad says it's a rip-off 'cause it tastes like – "

Booth came over and put both hands on Parker's shoulders, tickling the boy enough to make him squirm.

"Hey, Parks, remember what we talked about, bub?" he asked.

Brennan watched curiously as Parker rolled his eyes, before grudgingly putting his hands over his face.

"Why is he doing that?" she asked Booth.

"Dad said it's what I should do unless I wanna be totally grossed out," Parker informed her, his face still covered.

Booth took another step toward her, pulling her close.

"You look great," he said, close enough that she could feel the words rumble in his chest.

"So do you," she said, smiling like a fool. "Welcome back."

They kissed, there in the baggage claim with Parker's hands over his eyes and the rest of the world faded to the background. And it felt good, it felt right, and for the first time, Brennan felt as though she understood the allure of forever.

* * *

Portland was sunnier than he remembered it being. It smelled better, it looked better, and it sure felt a hell of a lot better than it had when there were serial killers running after Bones at every turn.

Parker had slept through most of the flight, which meant the kid was talking a mile a minute on the way back to Bones's place. He sat in the back, looking out the window, reading street signs to them, asking Bones about a thousand questions about what they'd be doing over the weekend.

Bones sat in the passenger's seat, turned around so that she could look at Parker while they talked, with her hand on Booth's thigh while he drove them home.

"How'd you break your foot?" Parker asked.

She hesitated, looking at Booth for a second.

"Remember, Parks – we talked about that. I told you, she fell. Just like you."

"Not _just _like me," Parker insisted. "Because I was on the monkey bars, and I broke my arm, not my foot. Bones wasn't on the monkey bars, right?" he asked.

Booth rolled his eyes. Smartass.

"That's true, Parker," she agreed. "I was climbing some rocks," she told him, after a second. "And you know that hard bone on the side of your ankle?" she asked.

Parker nodded, wide eyed.

"I bumped that part very hard, and I cracked the lateral malleolus – that's the smaller part of your ankle bone."

"Did it hurt?" he asked seriously.

Booth shifted uncomfortably, eyeing Bones, but she just smiled.

"It did, of course. Didn't yours?"

Parker shrugged. "It wasn't so bad," he said bravely. "And you'll get used to the cast," he told her, an old pro. "When we get to your house, maybe Dad and me can show you how to scratch inside it with a coat hanger – because sometimes it itches like crazy." He got serious. "And it smells pretty bad after a while, so you've gotta put powder in there. Doesn't she, Dad?"

Booth grinned, looking at Bones. "Couldn't hurt, bub. It couldn't hurt."

She was trying not to laugh, he could tell, but she kept her eyes on Parker's – all the while, her hand moving kind of absently up and down his thigh, like she didn't even know she was doing it, but Booth was already trying to figure out how long it would take before Parker passed out for the night. Based on the way the kid was talking, his whole body one little ball of stored-up energy, it wouldn't be for a while.

Once Parker had settled down a little, he had a chance to actually take in his partner's appearance. She looked good – better than good, actually, she looked gorgeous. No more circles under her eyes, and she even looked like she'd put a little of the weight she'd lost back on, which meant some of those curves he'd been missing were back in force. They were about a block away from the house, Parker still talking a mile a minute, when she realized he was watching her.

"What?" she asked, trying not to smile.

"You look good, Bones," he said. "Really, really good." He checked the rearview mirror. "Doesn't she look good, Parks?"

Parker rolled his eyes. "Gross, Dad. Gross."

* * *

There was a festival down by the river all weekend, with rides and cotton candy and fried dough, all set up on the boardwalk along the Willamette. Bones wanted to walk there, but Booth pointed out that – since it was three miles and she had a _fucking broken foot_, maybe they should take the car.

There were kids and dogs everywhere, couples of every size and shape and color. Music and great carnival food smells, a light breeze coming up off the river, bikers and runners whizzing by every so often. Bones was wearing this pretty, long skirt and that red, low-cut blouse that always drove him wild, holding hands with Parker while he told her what he'd been up to over the summer, what he was looking forward to in the coming year, and pretty much every other thought that popped into his head. It was basically Booth's dream date come to life.

Before long, though, he noticed that Bones was limping a little more than she had been before, wincing every so often when a biker went by too fast or someone bumped into her in the crowd. He put his arm around her, nodding toward an empty stretch of green grass off to the side of everything.

"How about we go sit for a while?" he said.

She smiled gratefully, resting her head against his shoulder for just a second. "That might be good."

It was about five, that hazy evening light falling over everything. When it was clear that Parker wouldn't just settle down without a fight, Booth stood up.

"Will you be okay without us for a few minutes?" he asked, already knowing that eye roll was coming the second the question was out. He nodded. "Yeah, I know – you can take care of yourself."

He grabbed Parker by the hand and pulled him up off the ground. "Come on, bub – how about some wind sprints?"

Parker nodded excitedly. "And then maybe we can run that bridge."

Jesus. Booth took a breath, and nodded. "Sure, Parks – whatever you say."

At one point during the run, he lost sight of Bones – just for a second, and it wasn't because she moved or anything, just because he was behind a bunch of columns on the other side of the river, but for that second, his heart was in his throat. Parker noticed the change, the way he slowed down, and looked at him anxiously.

"You okay, Dad?" he asked.

Booth nodded, still looking across the river. Another step to the left, and there she was – right where he'd left her. He kind of laughed, ran his hand through his hair.

"Yeah, Parks, I'm fine. Let's go get Bones, huh?" he asked.

Parker grinned. Rolled his eyes at his old man. "You're kinda pathetic, Dad."

Booth roughed up his hair, nodding dryly. "You don't know the half of it, buddy. Come on – let's go. I'll race you."

When they got back to Bones, Booth collapsed on the ground with Parker hot on his tail, convinced he was on the verge of a heart attack. Bones looked up from her writing with a grin, shaking her head.

"The kid's gonna sleep tonight if it kills me," Booth whispered to her.

She laughed, leaned over and kissed him impulsively, then blushed when Parker caught them. Yep. Best date of his goddamn life.

Parker wasn't even winded, though. He sat down next to Bones, eyeing her cast intently – which had apparently been signed by every writer in Oregon, and a bunch of the cops from the Lady Killer case to boot. The knowledge made Booth kind of proud, a little amazed all over again, because she really had no clue that this was who she was, how much people loved her.

"You must have a lot of friends," Parker said, comparing the few signatures (not _that _few, really – Parker knew a lot of people, for an eight-year-old) on his cast with the ones covering hers.

"I'm just around a lot of people," Bones reassured him. "They turned signing my cast into a party game a few days ago," she said, which surprised Booth. He looked up, and she shrugged – like it hadn't been interesting enough to mention. She shifted awkwardly, until a clear spot on the outside edge of the cast was showing.

"I saved a spot for you and your father, though," she said. "If you want to sign it."

Parker grinned, practically tearing the pen from her hand. He focused intently on signing his name over the ridges and curves, looking pleased with himself when he was finally done.

"There," he said. He handed the pen to Booth. "Your turn, Dad."

Booth frowned. He took the pen anyway, though, since it was clearly expected. Sighed, looking at Bones, who was looking back at him. Kind of amused, kind of curious.

Parker pointed to the blank space. "Just right there, Dad. If you can't think of anything, you can just write your name," he said helpfully.

Booth rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Parks." The rest of the cast was filled with drawings and inside jokes that he honestly doubted Bones even got. Bones was smiling at him – not a bad smile, actually, but one of those ones she got when she liked what she saw. Which took the pressure off, somehow.

He smiled. Wrote, _If found, please return to Special Agent Seeley Booth, _across the side. Which made Parker giggle, and Bones roll her eyes. But then, eventually, smile as well.

They ate dinner right there – carnival food that Booth figured would probably kill him later, but for now it didn't really matter. At seven, there was a sculling race on the river. They went and stood at the edge of the pier, looking out over the railing at the rowers moving in perfect synchrony across the water. Parker stood on the bottom rail, Booth holding onto the back of his shirt without even really realizing he was doing it. Bones shivered beside him, and he took off his coat and put it around her shoulders before she could refuse. Wrapped his arm around her, and she snuggled in without thinking twice.

* * *

Parker was passed out by nine – which was technically midnight for the little guy, since he was still on eastern time. They got home, and Booth carried him upstairs and tucked him in. Checked the closet and the windows, even though it was probably silly. Pushed the image of Angela, tied in the closet with tears rolling down her cheeks, far from his head. Kissed his kid on the forehead, and whispered goodnight.

Downstairs, Bones was in the kitchen. Staring into the fridge.

"You need a glass door," he told her.

"A what?" she asked, staring at him blankly.

"A glass door – for the fridge. So you can see what's inside, without letting everything thaw out."

"Oh," she said.

He came over and closed the refrigerator door. She turned around and put her arms around his neck. Leaned up to kiss him, tasting like cotton candy and the fried dough he'd gotten for himself but somehow only got a couple bites of, between Bones and Parker. She arched into him, deepening the kiss before he'd even had a chance, then pulled back. Looking a little uneasy.

"Is this okay?"

He raised an eyebrow. "It's definitely okay with me. Is it okay with you?"

She rolled her eyes. "I mean Parker."

"Trust me, that kid'll sleep through Armageddon when the day comes. I mean – no sex swings tonight, and you might need to keep the screams to a minimum," he gave her a wicked grin. "If you can manage it. But…" he moved in, kissed her again. Deeper, harder, more, until all he could think of was getting her upstairs. "Yeah, Bones. This is okay."

It felt easy, being there. Once they were upstairs, he closed the bedroom door behind them, and watched with his breath knocked clear and his jaw maybe hanging a little low, when she smiled at him. A little shy, a little… not. Pulled off the sweatshirt she'd been wearing, and dropped it on the floor. Started on the buttons of her blouse. He started to move toward her, but she shook her head.

"Unh uh – stay there. Make yourself comfortable."

Jesus. He was pretty sure that would be impossible.

She shook out her ponytail, so all that auburn hair spilled over her shoulders. He took a breath, the blood rushing straight to his groin. Her skirt came off next – an inch at a time, slow over her hips, then one millimeter of creamy thigh after another. He leaned back against the wall, because otherwise he was gonna pass out.

The blouse was next – he loved the way the red silk looked against the curve of her pale breast, loved the way she let it slide down her shoulder, off her back, before falling to the floor. She stood there in matching black bra and panties, her head tilted a little to the side, her eyes on him. And, of course, the huge, bulky cast still on her foot – which somehow still didn't kill the mood.

"Did you want to help with the rest?" she asked innocently.

He would, except his jeans were so tight at that point he could barely take a step. He peeled them off and let them drop to the floor, his boxers unmistakably tented. His striped socks were next, and then his t-shirt, before he finally allowed himself to go to her.

She ran a hand over his stomach, and he twitched in his shorts – she smiled a little, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him, and moved closer. He started by kissing her shoulder, and there was this little rush of air – this sweet, low intake, and he could've come right there.

"You're gorgeous," he told her.

"Thank you," she said, meeting his eye. Brushing her hand lower, her fingertips kind of dancing along the waistband of his shorts. Her voice got softer, a little lower, her eyes darker.

He ran his hand along the inner edge of her bra, loving the way her breath caught when he pushed the cup aside. He bent to take her nipple in his mouth, unhooking the bra with one hand while he trailed his other over her stomach, down between her thighs, pressing the heel of his hand against her mound until she gasped.

"Ssh," she laughed softly, like he was the one who'd made the noise. "We have to be quiet."

He grinned, pushing her back toward the bed. He forgot she had the cast, though, and just managed to catch her before she tripped and fell. Laughing harder now, the same desire in her eyes as before, and he felt drunk and dizzy and hotter than hell. He joined her laughter, trying to be quiet. Which didn't turn out to be so tough, once they'd finally made it back to the bed, because suddenly the world went still.

She put her arms around him, her nipples tight against his chest, her stomach pressed against his cock. "Hi," she said softly.

She moved against him, setting him on fire in ways he'd never even imagined, before her.

"Hi, baby," he returned. He took her earlobe between his teeth, until she began to move more desperately against him.

"God, Booth," she breathed, that kind of lost voice that meant she was already close, and he hadn't even touched her yet.

It was still new, they were still discovering things about each other, but they'd been together enough now that there were certain things he knew about her – like how, when he pushed aside the sheer fabric of her panties, she'd already be wet, long past ready for him. How, if he dipped a finger inside her, her head would fall back and her long, slender throat would make a perfect white line. The noise she would make – that intake of air, her hips coming up off the bed, the first sign that she was unraveling – when he ran his tongue over that little well at the base of her throat.

She lay back on the bed, and he watched her for a second before he lay down beside her. He pushed her panties down, past her hips, pausing for a second when they got caught on her cast.

"I really hate that thing," she said, laughing a little.

He nodded. "Me, too," he said, but he wasn't laughing. He kissed her shin, the closest piece of Bones he could find, after the cast. Moved up to her knee, sliding his hand up until he could dip a finger inside. She gasped, her head falling back to reveal the perfect, white line of her throat. She was watching him, her eyes hooded, as he sampled the juices on his finger – closed his eyes, licking his lips.

"I love the way you taste," he said softly.

He laid kisses up her thigh, listening to the way her breathing changed. The way her fingers curled in his hair, the gasp when he hooked her legs over his shoulders and his lips grazed her clit. Shadows played on the walls, light and dark, fast and slow. His tongue found her, moved deeper, and she arched and spiraled, curled and twisted, her breath coming faster, the words, "There, Booth – Seeley, Christ, please" coming in naked whispers in the still air, senseless and gorgeous, until he could feel her tensing under his hands, under his mouth, and then the flood of her honey, rich and sweet, when she slipped over.

He waited until she'd finished, until the final pulse had passed, and then moved up and barely gave her time for breath before he kissed her and she smiled. She wrapped her good leg around his waist, gasped again when he buried himself inside her – as deep as she could take him, watching her eyes change and the light move and the night swell.

"We should never stop doing this," she told him, her head falling back again when he moved inside her, pulling out halfway before sliding back in, the pressure already building fast.

"I won't if you won't," he promised, nearly losing control when her teeth grazed his Adam's apple. "Christ," he breathed softly. "You make me crazy."

"But in a good way," she said – like she was checking, not quite sure.

He kissed her, moved deeper and she gasped against his mouth until he was way past the point of no return.

"In the best way, Bones," he said, when he could find his voice. He nipped at the spot behind her ear, whispered roughly. "You gonna come for me again, baby?"

Her breath caught – she hitched her leg up higher, kissed him harder. Okay, so apparently talking was good for Bones.

He pulled out almost completely, holding off just long enough to make her look at him, just long enough to miss him, and then thrust back in, deep, so that she grunted before quickly biting her lip, blushing. "Sorry – quiet."

He leaned in, took her ear in his mouth. "Not that quiet, Bones. Relax," he whispered.

It was that way for a while – frantic one minute, laughing the next, teasing and tasting and then, suddenly, he fell into a rhythm that he couldn't break. She arched into him with every thrust, her breathing ragged, her hands on his back, moving over his chest, her hair damp on her forehead and her eyes closed. Lost.

"Booth," she whispered, still keeping her voice low. And a gasp, "God, Seeley," her lips on his neck, her tongue at his earlobe, her breath hot in his ear.

"That's it, baby," he whispered back, losing control of the rhythm, shifting just enough to hit her g-spot – he could tell by the change in her breathing, the way her body twisted beneath him, and she tensed, and fell, and he knew he would never, ever get tired of this dance.

* * *

Parker was up by six the next morning, knocking kind of shyly at the door before Booth tossed Bones his t-shirt, pulled on his boxers, and said, "Yeah, Parks. Come on in."

His son stood in the doorway with his curly blonde hair a puffy mess, his brown eyes a little uncertain.

"I'm not tired anymore," he said. "And I didn't know how to turn on the TV."

Booth kind of nodded. "That's all right – it's morning, right? I'll get up with you, buddy." He looked at Bones, who nodded gamely but definitely looked beat.

"Here, bub, how about we go downstairs and make Bones some breakfast?"

Parker nodded, still looking shy and a little out of place, until Bones gave him a sleepy smile. "Or you could come to bed with us for a while," she said, catching Booth's eye to see if she was doing something wrong. "We can talk about what we're going to do today, if you'd like."

It was all the invitation he needed. A second later, he'd climbed up on the massive bed and settled himself squarely between Booth and Bones with a happy grin.

"This is a really big bed, Bones," he said.

She nodded. "Well, your dad is a really big guy."

"He twists all over the place when he sleeps," Parker said knowingly. "And he snores."

Another nod. Great – just the kind of encouragement Bones needed.

"He's a really good cuddler, though," Parker informed her.

"He really is," she agreed.

"All right, that's enough of that, you two. What's on the agenda for today, Bones?" Booth prompted.

Moving was on the agenda. Rebecca had only agreed that he could bring Parker with him if he promised to have him back by Sunday night, since the new school year started on Tuesday and she wanted him to have Monday to get settled back in. Which meant everything got kind of rushed – something Bones insisted wasn't a big deal, but Booth still felt kind of bad about.

They spent the morning packing up boxes and getting them shipped out at the Mail Boxes Etc on the corner, Booth complaining the entire time because Jamie had taken Bones to about sixteen flea markets in the past two weeks. And the stuff Bones had accumulated – well, for someone who was supposed to be all about work and minimalism and whatever, she sure had a hell of a lot of crap.

That was done by noon, though, and then it was time for the zoo. Bones asked if he'd mind if Abby Martin – or Reardon, apparently – came along, and he'd of course said that he didn't. Even though he kind of did, but only because he'd been hoping for it to be just the three of them, and they didn't really know who this girl was or where she came from, and what if she was actually trying to take advantage of Bones, and Bones was just too naive to see it. But, since he couldn't exactly say any of that stuff, he just nodded and kept his mouth shut.

The zoo was crowded – which made sense, really, since it was a gorgeous Saturday afternoon on Labor Day weekend. The closer they got to the entrance, the more uneasy Booth got – checking the crowd, mapping the exits, watching the way Bones kind of flinched every time someone bumped into her. And then, of course, she'd pretend she hadn't flinched, and he'd pretend he hadn't seen it, and that he wasn't imagining all the ways someone could basically snuff out all his reasons for living in one fell swoop, by hitting the zoo today.

Abby was already waiting at the entrance, next to a big stone building at the top of a hill overlooking the entire park. She had her hair half-pulled back, like she hadn't actually had time to check a mirror before she left the house. A worn backpack was over one shoulder, and she wore baggy jeans and an oversized Seahawks t-shirt. She was reading when Bones spotted her, and when she looked up, Booth saw this quick flash of anxiety before she put the book away and managed a smile.

"Hi," she said, keeping her hands in her pockets when they first met.

Bones smiled at her – that genuine smile, this little spark of understanding passing between the two women, and Abby kind of relaxed.

"Abby, this is my… partner," she said, with that tiny hesitation now, like she was about to say something else – she just wasn't sure what. "Seeley Booth. And his son, Parker."

She shook Booth's hand, but kept talking to Bones the whole time – like Booth wasn't actually there.

"Seriously?" she asked, looking at Booth doubtfully. "You mean – partner as in work partner, or partner as in liberated boyfriend?"

Bones hesitated. "Both, I suppose. Though the boyfriend part is new."

Meanwhile, Parker had been noticeably quiet – not exactly standing _behind_ Booth, but pretty damned close. He tugged on his father's hand, until Booth turned and gave him his undivided attention.

"Yeah, pal, what's up?"

"Is Abby coming with us, Dad?" he asked, in a loud whisper.

"Yeah, Parks. You okay with that?" Even though they'd actually already discussed this whole thing – still, Parker looked a little weird about the new development.

But, Parker nodded without a second's hesitation. Bones and Abby were deep in conversation by this time, but Parker waited until there was a break before he busted in.

"Do you know if they have lions here?" he asked Abby. He let go of Booth's hand, and took a step toward the girl.

She looked at Bones, like she wasn't exactly sure what to say, but eventually nodded. "I haven't been here in a while, but – yeah, I'm sure they probably do."

Parker thought this over. "At the zoo where I'm from, they have a huge section for lions. And they have monkeys, too – big ones. Gorillas."

"Gorillas are actually apes – not monkeys. They're both anthropoids, but they're really quite different from one another," Abby told him. Which, Booth suspected, was exactly what Bones would have said, if Abby hadn't beaten her to the punch.

Parker looked at her doubtfully. "My dad calls them monkeys."

"Well, they're not," she said firmly. "A chimpanzee is actually a closer genetic match to a human than it is to a monkey."

Booth waited for Parker to defend his old man's honor, but instead the boy took Abby's hand kind of shyly, and looked up at her.

"I like your hair," he said – solemn as hell, and Booth knew then and there that his kid was a goner. Apparently, Parker had inherited his old man's love of difficult, brainy women.

They were almost at the gate to pay when the money issue came up. Booth was going for his wallet when Bones stopped him.

"I've got it, Booth – it was my idea," she insisted.

"I can pay my own way, thanks," Abby said shortly, digging around in her jeans.

"Dad, I want to pay for Abby," Parker said seriously.

They were starting to hold up the line, so Booth grabbed his walled and slapped down his credit card before a fight broke out. Bones started to argue, but he just told her she could get lunch. He grinned at Abby.

"Sorry – between the three of us, I'm pretty sure you're not gonna be footing the bill for much today."

Once they'd paid, Parker pulled Abby on ahead. Since she didn't seem like the kind of person who'd go anywhere unwillingly, though, Booth let them go. Bones slipped her hand into his, and he smiled at her.

"I think they just ditched us," he told Bones.

"I think your son just ditched us – I expect Abby would have been quite happy if I'd just left the two of you alone."

He grinned. "Really? Huh – guess I just have that effect on women. Jealous?"

"I'm used to it by now," she admitted, catching him off guard at how serious she still was. "I've spent four years watching women salivate over you, I'm quite accustomed to it by now."

He put his arm around her, pulling her close. Not sure if this was a serious talk, or she was just making conversation.

"Well, you know you're the only one I'm salivating over, right Bones? There's not a woman out there who could hold a candle to you."

She rolled her eyes, but she was definitely smiling. Even blushing, a little. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thank you," she said quietly.

He kissed her temple, and they kept walking. "Just speaking the truth, Bones. Just speaking the truth."

They checked out the meerkats and the monkeys (which were apparently actually apes), had lunch in the AfriCafe while Abby told them all about the birds in the aviary below, and then just before they were getting ready to head out for the afternoon, Parker came racing over and pulled Booth aside.

"Dad, can I borrow fifty cents?" he asked. He was out of breath, his eyes on fire, and Booth dug into his pocket for some loose change.

"Easy, Parks – jeez, you're gonna break something else if you don't take it easy. You still hungry?"

He shook his head impatiently. "No – " his voice a loud whisper now, looking to make sure Abby wasn't listening. She and Bones were talking quietly again, though, so that didn't look like it would be a problem.

"See those rings?" Parker asked, pointing to a coin slot toy dispenser with tacky plastic rings pictured on the front. "I'm gonna get one for Abby."

Booth managed to keep a straight face, but it wasn't easy. "You sure about this, buddy? I mean, a ring's a pretty big step."

Parker looked at him seriously. "Dad, it's just a friendship ring – at least, for now. We're friends, so it's okay. It'll be like with you and Bones. First friends, and then I'll change her mind. Like you did. And _then_, she'll marry me. Just like you and Bones."

Which sounded great in theory, but clearly the kid didn't have the whole story. Booth shook his head, but he still ponied up the fifty cents. Then, after a second, he pulled out another couple of quarters.

"Do me a favor, bub – why don't you grab one for me, too. You know, just in case."

Parker grinned. "Sure thing, Dad. Good thinkin'."

Abby seemed a little freaked out and a little flattered by the whole ring thing – she wouldn't actually wear it, but she did put it on a string around her neck. Which seemed to satisfy Parker, at least. Booth popped the ring for Bones out of its plastic bubble, then looked at it for just a second before looking at Bones, who was debating with Abby about some kind of evolutionary theory on lemurs. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't quite bring himself to throw the thing away. Instead, he stuffed it in his jacket pocket and walked on.

They left just after three. Abby shook Booth's hand solemnly, was only slightly less business-like with Bones, and then only gave Parker a hug because the kid had glommed onto her and she didn't seem to have much choice. She turned down a ride home in favor of the train, and Booth watched Bones for a few seconds while they were waving goodbye to her.

"She'll be okay," he told her. Bones looked at him – he waited for her to argue, but she just nodded.

"I hope so," she said.

So did Booth.

* * *

Right after dinner, Booth asked if Bones would be okay watching Parker for a little while. She looked a lot less freaked out at the prospect than he'd expected, waving off his apologies with her usual eye roll.

"Just go – we're fine. Right, Parker?"

Parker was helping do up the dishes. He barely looked over his shoulder at his old man, kneeling on a stool, up to his elbows in soapy water.

"We're fine, Dad," he said.

And so… Booth went.

He made the familiar drive across town feeling less and less like this was a good idea, his hands tight on the wheel. Once he was outside Artie's garage, he sat in the car for a good ten minutes, debating.

Finally, he smacked the steering wheel with the palms of his hands in frustration.

"Fuck it." He got out of the car.

The garage was locked. Booth went around to the side, tracking through tall grass to peer in the grimy windows. Tried the back door, which was also locked.

He pounded on the door.

"Art! It's Seeley – open up!"

Olga – or Helga, whatever the hell her name was – had called him in D.C., to tell him that Artie wouldn't take her calls, had fired her as his physical therapist, hadn't left the garage in days. Booth tried calling, leaving about a dozen messages with no reply.

He should have come here first – as soon as he landed in Portland, because that's what a good friend would do. But somehow, he just hadn't seemed to be able to make that trip.

He stood at the front of the building again, looking for a way in. Finally, he ended up turning a garbage can over and standing on it, pulling himself into a window that was open on the other side of the place. Once he was in, he stood there for a while, getting his bearings. Listening. He was on the far side of the garage, where Mickey's pickup was parked with the hood up. The light was bad in the place, just a couple of naked bulbs illuminating way too much square footage – Booth couldn't begin to guess how Artie got anything done in the place.

He could see a sliver of light coming from under Artie's office door – he bit his lip, suddenly not liking the thought of what he might find. Under all the motor oil and monkey grease, the smells of booze and cigarette smoke were strong. He thought again of Paraguay: what he thought he remembered versus the real story. Mickey was right – he'd been way beyond his limit that night, like most nights they were off duty. He remembered the place – remembered talking to a pretty girl in the bar. Remembered a scream, guns drawn, a naked girl bleeding at his feet. Artie, on the stairs.

He knocked on the office door, tried the knob.

"Artie – you in there? It's Seeley."

Nothing, for a solid sixty seconds. It was a flimsy corkboard door, he'd have no trouble knocking it down. Of course, he had no clue what was waiting for him on the other side. Nevertheless, he was about to take the thing down when Artie called to him.

"Go away. I'm not receiving guests right now."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a guest. Come on, Art, open the fuckin' door."

"I'm busy." His words unmistakably slurred.

Booth waited another few seconds. "Artie, if you don't open the door I'm coming in anyway. Which means you're gonna have to put up another shitty door to replace the one I'm about to break down."

Nothing, then: "Seriously, Seel. Just give me a break, all right? Go home."

Five more seconds, his heart drilling against his ribs. He took a couple steps back, then went at the door with all his weight. His adrenaline was going too much to notice more than a little sting in his shoulder at the impact, but the lock popped and the door gave, splintering in a couple places before it swung open.

Artie sat in front of a table covered with old pictures. He had an army-issue Beretta maybe two centimeters from his left hand, a whisky bottle in his right. Booth stopped moving the second he was in the room, taking in the scene like he was watching some old movie, as Artie's hand closed over the gun.

Saying that he didn't look good would definitely be an understatement. His hair was filthy, he had a week-old patchy beard, red eyes. The smell, though, was what really did it – a combination of whiskey and cigarettes and B.O. that was almost enough to make Booth gag. The smile the man directed Booth's way wasn't the most sane one he'd ever seen, either.

"I told you to stay out," he said.

His hand was on the gun, but his finger wasn't on the trigger yet. Booth considered his chances – he was still a good six feet away, too far to get the gun away before Artie did any damage.

"What the hell are you doing, Art?" he asked.

Artie looked at him with those red eyes, like he wasn't sure who he was seeing.

"I'm re-evaluating."

Booth nodded, his mouth suddenly bone dry. He took a couple steps into the room – Artie didn't make a move, one way or the other.

"Maybe you could re-evaluate in the shower. Come on." He took another step, saw Artie's hand kind of slide around the pistol grip.

"You know how many women he killed?" Artie asked, his eyes filling. "How many years he'd been doing it?"

Another step, his hands up where Art could see them.

"Yeah, Art, I know," he said quietly.

The other man picked up the gun – almost like he hadn't realized until then that it was there.

"Artie – come on, man. Put down the gun, let's just talk for a while, huh?" He took another step closer.

Artie looked at him. Smiled. Itched his temple with the barrel of the gun. Booth closed his eyes for just a second, willing himself to stay calm.

"Damn it, Artie. Come on. Put it down."

"How do you not see that kind of shit, Seel?" He shook his head, tears flowing freely now. "You know how many years we worked together? How many nights he drove my drunk ass home and put me to bed?"

He waved his gun at the table, indicating the pictures there.

"How do you look at _these, _and come up with _that_? Deranged serial killer who gets off on torturing women?"

"Art, I want you to listen to me – all right?" His voice was just a hair shy of pleading. "It wasn't your fault. I didn't see it, either. Nobody saw it, okay? There was nothing you could've done."

His face went still all of a sudden, his eyes dead on Booth's. "Don't you get it, though? I did see it. I saw him – I saw that he was nuts, hell I even saw a couple of the women he beat up when we were in the Rangers." The gun went back to his head, snug against his temple. "I didn't do a fucking thing."

Booth stopped moving. "Artie – Jesus, buddy, put down the fuckin' gun, okay?" His voice broke – he took a second to steady himself. "Please, Artie. We're gonna figure this out, all right? You've got things to live for, y'know? It looks bad right now, but we'll set it right. Just… give me the gun."

Artie studied him for another few seconds, while the world held still. The place was silent, too hot, and Booth could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, trickling down the back of his neck.

Finally, Artie kind of went limp. Sagged in his chair, like all his bones had just dissolved. He nodded. Put the safety back on, and lay the gun back on the table.

Booth grabbed it before he could change his mind, his knees buckling when he made the move. He managed to recover and avoid disgracing himself by actually passing out, but his head was swimming.

He took another breath, grabbed Artie's wheelchair, and pushed him the hell out of the room.

"You got a shower in this place?" he asked.

"I just want to be left alone, Seel," he said brokenly. "I don't need a shower."

"The hell you don't. Come on."

There was a semi-disgusting bathroom in the back. Booth took one look at it and grimaced. He poured scouring powder over every surface he could find, rinsed it clean, and dragged Artie inside.

"Come on. First step is to sober you up. Then we'll deal with everything else."

"Everything else is shit," Artie said shortly.

Booth nodded. "I know it is, Art. But you're gonna get through it anyway, because that's what you do." He took out his phone and dialed Olga.

"Now strip down, I'll help you get in there. We're gonna piece you back together so your girlfriend doesn't know just how far gone you are."

Olga answered immediately, telling him in broken English that she'd be over in a couple hours. Artie, meanwhile, had gotten as far as getting his shirt off. When Booth hung up, he was staring at the floor.

"You would've done something, wouldn't you?" he asked Booth.

Booth considered this, remembering what the man had said in the other room. "If I'd known Mickey was beating the shit out of women back in the Rangers?" he sighed, puffed out his cheeks on the exhale.

"What do you want me to say, Art? That I would've just let it slide?" he shrugged, the anger clear in his voice. "You know me better than that – which is why nobody ever said a fuckin' word to me about it."

Artie looked like he was ready to head back to his office and swallow a bullet, though, so Booth put the lid on his own rage, tried to get his tone back to neutral.

"Look, not every violent drunk is a psychotic serial killer, right? I knew he was a prick when he was drinking, too – does that mean I should've seen this?" He actually thought about the words for the first time; thought of Bones saying the same thing to him. _It wasn't your fault. _

He took a breath. Crouched down so he was looking Artie in the eye.

"You're gonna be all right, okay?"

He took off Artie's shoes and socks, helped him with his pants. Started the shower running. Once Artie was seated in the shower, Booth left the considerable job of scrubbing off some of the filth to him, and made a quick phone call.

"Where are you?" Bones asked, as soon as she answered.

"I'm sorry – it's taking a little longer than I expected." He hadn't told her where he was going; hadn't actually mentioned Artie's name since the whole nightmare with Mickey, and still wasn't sure how to bring it up.

"Is everything all right?" she wanted to know, a little tinge of fear creeping into her voice.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "It is – things are just…"

"Are you with Artie?"

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah."

"You could have told me that," she said, and he could tell she was hurt tht he hadn't. "Is he okay?"

"Not really – he's having kind of a tough time. I'm sorry, Bones – I didn't plan on just dumping Parker on you and taking off."

"We're fine," she said quickly. It actually sounded like they probably were – there was music playing in the background, and he could hear Parker laughing. "Take as long as you need. We'll be here when you get back."

The water was still running when he hung up and went back into the bathroom. Booth stood outside the shower and listened while Artie told him the things he'd known and the things he was sure he should have suspected, even though, it turned out, Artie didn't know a whole hell of a lot more than Booth had. He got out of the shower and managed to pull himself together enough to shave and get some food down, so that by the time Olga arrived at eleven, Booth was starting to feel like maybe his friend would make it after all.

Just before he left, he gave Art a hug. Bumped fists.

"You got the little woman waiting at home?" Artie wanted to know.

Booth rolled his eyes. "I won't much longer, if she finds out people are calling her the little woman. But yeah… She's waiting."

Artie nodded. Smiled, just a hair. "You've earned this one – you know that, right, Seel? Anybody deserves the fairy tale ending, it's you. Don't fuck it up."

"I'll do my best," he promised. "You take care of yourself, right? No more firing your girlfriend and playing Russian roulette in your own filth. I hear you're pulling that shit again, I'll come back and kick your ass."

Olga took over from there. Booth left the two alone and hoped for the best, because it didn't seem like there was much more he could do. It was up to Artie, now.

* * *

It was midnight by the time he got back to the house. The outside light came on when he pulled into the driveway, but the rest of the place was dark. He got that little rush of fear that, at this point, he'd gotten almost as used to as breathing, but he pushed it to the side.

He unlocked the front door, punched in the security code before the alarm could go off, and turned on the living room light. They'd be leaving before noon, so it looked like Bones and Parker must have spent the evening cleaning. The place was spotless. It smelled like lemons, everything in its place and not a sign anywhere of what had happened here just two weeks before.

He crept up the stairs and opened the bedroom door. Bones was asleep with Parker curled up next to her, his head on her shoulder. She was wearing Booth's t-shirt, her hair spilled loose on the pillow. Parker was smiling in his sleep, his Superman pjs riding a little high, his hair a tangle of curls. Booth went over and picked him up gently.

"Bones said I can sleep with you," he said sleepily, the second Booth picked him up.

Booth rolled his eyes. "Well, Bones isn't the boss on this one. Sorry, pal."

Parker didn't actually complain, though – just snuggled in and fell back to sleep a few seconds later. By the time Booth got him back in his own bed, the kid was lost in dreamland without a peep.

Back in their bedroom, Booth stripped down to his boxers and slipped into bed, trying to be quiet. Bones stretched. Opened one eye, smiling at him.

"You're home," she said.

He smiled. Cuddled in closer, brushing the hair from her face, resting his forehead against hers.

"I'm home. Everything go all right?"

She nodded. Smiled sleepily. "We had fun," she said, like it was kind of a surprise. "We cleaned. Told stories. Listened to music. Parker showed me a dance you taught him."

Booth groaned. "I knew I should never leave you two alone."

She was quiet for a few seconds, her wheels spinning. Trying to decide something or other – God only knew what.

"He told me you got me a ring today," she said.

Well, shit.

Booth chewed on his lip for a second. "To be fair, it was only a fifty-cent ring. A fifty-cent _friendship _ring."

"That's what Parker said," she told him. It would have been nice if she'd led with that part.

"Oh." He hesitated, trying to figure out what she might be thinking. "It was just… you know, a joke, Bones."

Which he thought would relieve her, but instead she got this kind of worried look. God, he couldn't figure her out sometimes.

"What are you thinking?" he finally asked. He kissed her on the lips – soft, fast, just because he wanted that quick taste of her before whatever conversation they were about to have.

"Marriage, and children…" she started. Then stopped, so he waited a couple of seconds before he finished for her.

"I know, Bones – they're not your thing," he said, trying not to let onto the fact that they _were _his thing.

Another long pause. She swallowed, running her hand along his side – studying him all the while.

"I never thought they would be. And I'm not…" she wrinkled her forehead, the way she did when she was trying to work out some especially tricky bone problem. "I'm not ready for them right now."

He wasn't sure what she was saying, but so far it didn't sound as bad as he'd expected. "I know that," he said.

She kissed him again, longer this time. Sweeter. "Someday," she looked monumentally uncertain now. Treading on shaky, shaky ground. "I mean – not that you would want to, with me necessarily. But perhaps – "

It suddenly didn't feel like the time to play things close to the vest. He looked at her intently, thinking of what he'd nearly lost two weeks ago.

"Temperance, you say the word and I'd get married tomorrow. It's your call – we can take as much time as you need. But there's no doubt in mind that you're the person I want to wake up beside, for the rest of my life and on into the next one."

He waited for her to freak out and run screaming from the bed, but she didn't. She just lay there, drawing lazy circles on his side until his blood started to run a little warmer. Watching him. Thinking.

"I'm not ready, yet," she finally repeated. A second or two passed. Her hands found their way past the waistband of his shorts, and she pulled him closer. Tilted her head a little, her eyes still intent on his. "It doesn't mean I'll never be ready," she said softly.

"Yeah?" he asked, not quite sure he understood her right.

She nodded. "I think so. I don't know... Everything's changing. Things I never imagined I'd be thinking about, I find myself considering on a fairly regular basis."

"Things like what, exactly?"

She draped her leg over his, pressing herself close. Kissed his neck, running her hands over his chest. "Good things," she finally said. "Can we just leave it at that, for now?"

The clock counted out the seconds. The night closed in around them, the events of the past month slowly fading once her lips were on his. Tomorrow, they would be home - back in D.C., back where it all started. They would work side by side, solve cases, argue the same way they always had. Make up afterward, in the best way possible. He smiled.

"Yeah, Bones. We can leave it at that."

He rolled over and turned out the bedside lamp. Wrapped her in his arms and held her close, breathed her in. And thought of good things.

FIN


End file.
